We'll Meet Again
by George deValier
Summary: WW2 AU. London pub owner Arthur Kirkland is driven to distraction by loud, brash American fighter pilot Alfred Jones. Unable to stop it, Arthur finds himself falling for Alfred's charms... just as the pilot is preparing to leave for war.
1. Chapter 1

_Pairing: Alfred Jones/Arthur Kirkland (USUK)_

_Summary: WW2 AU. Londoner Arthur Kirkland's pub, the Emerald Lion, is overrun by American servicemen on leave. One in particular is driving him to distraction - loud, brash fighter pilot Alfred Jones. Unable to stop it, Arthur finds himself falling for Alfred's charms - just as the pilot is preparing to leave for war._

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_This story is the first of my ongoing Hetalia WW2 AU, the Veraverse. It stands on its own, however if you are interested, check out my profile page for other fics in the series._

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_Winter, late 1943  
__London, England_

The Americans were starting to drive Arthur mad. For weeks now his London pub had been full of loud, obnoxious, carousing American servicemen on leave. They yelled, they drank, they fought occasionally, they drank, they flirted with the local girls, and they drank some more. Then they did it all over again. To begin with it was a vaguely interesting break in the same tedious old routine. By the end of the second night, Arthur had had enough.

To be honest, they were not all bad. They generally tried to be well behaved, they poured a lot of money into his pub, and after all, they _were_ allies fighting a common enemy.

Truth be told, _they_ weren't starting to drive Arthur mad at all.

_He_ was.

"Hey, Art, buddy! Another bourbon here!"

Arthur looked up at the grinning blond holding his empty glass over the bar. Everything about the American irritated Arthur. The absurd bomber jacket he lived in. His perpetual grin. The way he never combed his bloody hair. And the _arrogance_… Arthur had not been the least bit surprised to learn he was a fighter pilot. Thought the whole bloody British Isle owed him their freedom and allegiance. Arthur gritted his teeth and snatched the glass.

"My name is Arthur. And kindly refrain from calling me your buddy." Arthur reached for the bourbon. Ghastly American stuff. He barely went through a bottle a year before the war. Since the Americans turned up, he went through a carton a night.

"All right, sorry Art. Thur." Alfred grinned. He was obviously used to getting his way with that grin… but it bloody well wasn't going to work with Arthur. "Come have a drink with us."

Arthur clenched the bottle a little too strongly as he poured it into the glass. "Thank you, but no. I'm working."

Alfred just laughed at that. "I thought you owned the damn place. Let someone else pour the drinks for a while. Take a load off."

Another irritating thing. That ridiculous accent. Alfred seemed able to stretch every word into seven syllables. Arthur suppressed his irritation, pushed the glass across the bar, and attempted to be polite. He had a reputation as a gentleman to uphold, after all. "Thank you again, but I'm afraid I'm run off my feet with all you soldiers."

"Soldiers?" Alfred gasped loudly and put a hand to his chest in mock outrage. "Why Arthur, you wound me! Don't you know that I'm…"

"The youngest flight leader in all US Army Air Fighter divisions," Arthur finished for him monotonously. "This must be the - twelfth, I believe it is - time you have informed me of the fact."

Alfred just kept grinning as he took a swig of bourbon. "Well, don't you go forgetting it and calling me a soldier. That's an insult to a man, that is."

Arthur shook his head as he glared at the American. The arrogance was unfathomable. "I do apologise," he said sarcastically. "Will you ever forgive me."

Alfred leant fervently across the bar. "Don't be like that Arthur, of course I'll forgive you!" Arthur rolled his eyes, but Alfred did not seem to notice. "Hey, I know, make it up to me by having that drink with us, yeah?"

"I already told you, I'm working." Alfred's face fell just slightly. Arthur felt the tiniest stab of guilt, and could not stop himself adding, "Maybe another time." It was the sixth time this week he had given that answer, but Alfred still brightened at the words.

"Well all right, I'll see you later then! I look forward to having that drink with ya." Alfred winked, picked up his bourbon, and sauntered back to his table.

Arthur let out a deep breath. He turned and placed the bourbon back on the shelf, took a cloth from beneath the bar, and began wiping the bar top vigorously. Arthur had never dealt with something like this before. Customers asked him for drinks, he served them. None of them ever asked him to join them – hell, most of them barely spared a word for him. Yet this American pilot had bothered him every night for a week: coming to the bar for constant refills, chatting inanely, telling stupid jokes and bragging wildly. Arthur could not understand it.

Of course, a tiny, hopeful part of his brain held the smallest suspicion - but no. Arthur had spent too long suppressing that secret part of himself. The reason he had no close friends, the reason his brothers hated him; the reason he cut himself off from society, the reason even his country's armed services refused to accept him. He had learnt from his past mistakes, and knew better than to see his own secret wishes and desires where actually there was nothing. But then, what was it about this bloody Yank? Why did he keep asking Arthur to drink with him? Why did he keep looking over at Arthur behind the bar and waving? Why did he have to _grin_ like that? And why the bloody hell did it affect Arthur so much when he did?

Arthur risked a glance over at the pilot's table. He always sat at the same one, by the second front window, with that other fellow who looked so much like him that Arthur wondered if they were brothers. Sure enough, Alfred was looking right at him. And _grinning_. Arthur quickly looked down. This was preposterous. He ran a hand over his heated forehead and felt it burning red. Throwing the cloth down, Arthur stormed over to the other side of the busy pub. Surely there must be some empty glasses to pick up.

An elderly regular nodded to him as he passed. "How are you dealing with all these bleedin' Yanks, Arthur?"

Arthur gave a short laugh then backed into a table to avoid a drunk soldier stumbling past. "It's keeping me on my feet, I can tell you that much."

The old man threw the soldier a dirty look. "Ah well, chin up, eh? Don't even know why we need them here, it's not as though our boys can't take on the Jerry's without them!"

"Rather," agreed Arthur, nodding acknowledgment to a group of loud Americans signalling for service.

"Ah well my lad, with the way things are shaping up on the continent it won't be long before they're out of your hair, I imagine."

"I can hardly wait." Why did Arthur not even know if he meant it? His eyes flashed fleetingly towards Alfred's table before he quickly turned to serve the table of rowdy soldiers.

A few hours later, with the place thankfully somewhat quieter, Arthur finally had a chance to wipe down the vacant tables and collect empty glasses. He did have a few staff, but they only worked occasionally, and Arthur barely even knew their names. He preferred to do most of the work here himself. This was his pub, after all. The Emerald Lion. It wasn't much, but it was his entire life; it was everything he knew. The long bar that ran across the room, the old wooden tables and chairs that had never been replaced. The huge fireplace and its ornate mantelpiece. The ancient brick walls; the creaky narrow staircases that led down to the cold, dark cellar and up to his cosy, familiar living area. Arthur knew every part of this place like his own body. It had always been a family business, but Arthur was the last family member left here now. He felt it his duty to do as much as possible on his own.

Arthur headed back to the bar, glancing around the room as he went. Most of the patrons left were locals. The more intoxicated Americans had already been dragged back to base, but a few remained to have a few quiet drinks before close. Including Alfred. Arthur tried to avoid looking his way, but could not ignore the loud voice that called to him as he walked past the American's table.

"Arthur, buddy, how about you finally come have that drink you promised?"

"I promised no such…" Arthur trailed off, faced with Alfred's pleading expression. He sighed. This could not be a good idea… "Very well then. One moment." Arthur went to the bar, deposited the empty glasses in the sink, and poured himself a small glass of rum. After all, the place was fairly quiet. Maybe this would finally stop Alfred's constant requests, as well as put Arthur's own curiosities to rest. Alfred was obviously just a friendly young guy who treated everyone like this.

Arthur sat down at the table, taking the seat closest to the bar. He half hoped for a patron to approach it for a drink, giving him an excuse to leave. Much to his annoyance, he was far too nervous sitting this close to Alfred.

"I knew I'd convince you eventually," said Alfred cheerfully.

Arthur glared at him. "You don't give up, do you?"

The man by Alfred's side chuckled softly. "You've no idea," he said quietly.

Alfred slapped the man on the shoulder and grinned at Arthur. "Arthur, this is Lieutenant Matthew Williams."

Arthur nodded at Matthew. He really did look remarkably like Alfred. "Pleased to meet you."

"Evening. Lovely pub you have here." Matthew was so quiet Arthur could barely hear him.

"Thank you. Are you a pilot as well, Lieutenant?" Arthur figured that since he was sitting here, he may as well be polite. And besides, it was probably safer to make conversation with Matthew than Alfred.

"Matt's my wingman!" Alfred interrupted loudly. "That means he gets to watch while I do all the heroic stuff."

"No, it means I cover your butt from attack and try to make sure you don't do anything stupid. Like get yourself killed."

"Matthew, when have I ever done anything stupid?"

Matthew just blinked at Alfred silently for a moment before Arthur cut in. "Um, so sorry to be rude, but you two aren't…"

"Related?" Alfred shook his head, laughing. "Nah. Pure coincidence. Confuses the hell out of some of the superiors, I tell ya what. Finally made Matt grow his hair so they can tell us apart."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "It doesn't help that they never believe me when I tell them who I am. _'Matthew Williams'_ I say and it's always, _'Who?'_ Damned frustrating, eh?"

Alfred leant over and whispered to Arthur. "Never mind him, he's Canadian, eh?" Arthur leant away slightly when he felt the warm breath on his ear.

"I heard that," said Matthew.

"You're Canadian?" asked Arthur, taking a fortifying gulp of rum and forcing himself to focus on Matthew. Alfred was not making it easy.

Matthew started to reply but Alfred cut him off. "Oh, not anymore, he joined the good guys long ago. No longer a subject of the British Empire, eh, Matt?" Arthur narrowed his eyes slightly and Alfred quickly added, "Not, of course, that there's anything wrong with that."

"Just because I am currently flying in your Air Force does not mean that I am an American, Alfred," said Matthew with a frown. "I still consider myself Canadian."

Alfred raised his hands placatingly. "Hey, hey, as do we all." He rolled his eyes at Arthur. "He never lets us forget it. Lives on maple syrup, carries little polar bears around…"

Arthur furrowed his brow. "Carries polar bears?"

"Ah yes, this here…" Matthew unpinned a tiny fluffy white bear from one of his lapels. "…is Kumabaro. He's my lucky mascot."

"I thought his name was Kumajiro?" asked Alfred.

Matthew shrugged. "Something like that. Anyway, we all have one… a lucky charm that is. Except for Alfred."

"Oh?" Arthur could not help being curious. "Why don't you have one?"

"Well, it has to be something special. And nothing's ever turned up. But hey, never needed one before. I'm alive, ain't I?" Alfred raised his glass and drained it.

"I'll drink to that," said Matthew, draining his also. Arthur thought he had better follow suit.

"Now we're dry here… hey, barkeep!" Alfred shouted before turning to Arthur. "Oh wait…" He laughed raucously. Arthur was still not used to that laugh. It was the most boisterous, unique laugh he had ever heard. Usually half the pub turned and looked whenever Alfred let loose with it.

"Amusing," said Arthur, unsmiling. "Very well then, I suppose I'd better bring the bottle."

An hour later and Arthur had consumed far more alcohol than was wise while he was still working. At least the pub had quieted down even further, with only a handful of Americans still remaining. Matthew had left twenty minutes earlier - something about needing to oil an engine, Arthur couldn't remember - after Alfred spent a couple of minutes winking at him. What was with all this winking? It must be an American thing.

It felt a little odd to be sitting with the man who had been driving him to distraction for a week now. Sure, Alfred was arrogant and loud and, well, American, but he wasn't all that bad, Arthur supposed. Just very confident and perhaps a bit naive. But still rather irritating.

"And we're doing this for justice, you know, I wouldn't be here otherwise. We're fighting for freedom here, for what's right. We can't just let the powers of evil and tyranny take over while we stand willing and able to prevent it." Alfred gestured strongly as he continued his oration. He had been going solidly for ten minutes now. "It's just…" He paused to search for an adjective. "…un-American."

"Right, right. And where were you Americans two years ago?" Arthur muttered around his glass as he took a sip.

"Huh?"

Arthur waved his hand dismissively. Alfred seemed to know nothing about the war that had been raging without the Americans for years now. "Nothing." He grasped for a way to change the subject. "How long have you been flying?"

Alfred's face lit up immediately. "I used to go up with my dad as a kid. He was a delivery pilot you know, flew all over the country. Flew a De Havilland DH4, beautiful old plane. I still remember the feeling I got when I first went up with him." Alfred's face was vibrant as he spoke animatedly. "It was, well, really exciting, you know? Like that feeling you get when something is really intense and sort of terrifying and breathtaking and fantastic and you're a little nervous but you never want it to end. Know what I mean?"

Arthur didn't, but he couldn't help but be captivated by the smile on Alfred's face and the look of joy in his bright, blue eyes. "Sounds awfully nerve-racking to me, I'm afraid."

Alfred laughed softly and looked into his drink. "Ah, it's hard to explain. But it's my life. Signed up for the Air Force as soon as I turned eighteen, and before you know it, here I am in England, fighting in a war! Life can be damned odd sometimes."

"Certainly…" Arthur trailed off uncertainly. "Wait. How old are you?"

"Nineteen. Why, how old are you?"

"I… er…" Arthur hadn't realised Alfred was so young. Suddenly he felt like an old man. "Never mind."

"Oh no, you have to tell me now!" said Alfred, putting his glass down and leaning in eagerly. "Are you really old?"

"No!" said Arthur indignantly. "I'm just no longer a teenager."

"That's okay, I like older men." Alfred did that bloody winking thing.

Arthur stared blankly, shocked. Surely he couldn't mean… Arthur forced himself to respond. "I'm twenty-three if you must know. Though it is awfully impolite to ask."

Alfred laughed, high and cheerful and raucous as ever. "Hey, you asked me first, Arthur."

Bollocks. So he had. "Well. Either way. Really, nineteen?"

Alfred nodded cheerfully.

"Right. Fine. Jolly good." Arthur finished his glass, embarrassed. He barely noticed Alfred fill it up, looking up at Arthur with sparkling eyes and a tiny smile.

"So Arthur, you got a girlfriend? A wife hanging round here somewhere?"

"What?" Arthur was quickly losing track of the conversation. "No."

Alfred winked. "Didn't think so."

Arthur gasped indignantly, then felt a small flush of fear. Could he have been too friendly? Could he have been too obvious? Could Alfred know… "Just what the hell is that…"

"Here, let me show you a picture of my girl," interrupted Alfred.

Arthur felt his fear and anger dissipate as his heart sank. He was surprised at the intensity of the feeling. He told himself not to be ridiculous. Of course Alfred wasn't, well… like him. He silently upbraided himself for even daring to think it. Of course Alfred had a girlfriend. He was too handsome not to. Wait, when did he stop being irritating and become handsome? Arthur decided it must have been sometime after the fourth drink. Besides, it wasn't like he cared. "Oh. Very well, let's see."

Alfred pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, took out a small battered photo, and passed it to Arthur. "That's her."

Arthur looked at the photo and blinked a few times. "Um. It's a plane."

"Hey, hey, that ain't just any old plane. She's a P-51 Mustang, her name's Lady Beth, and she's beautiful, ain't she?"

Arthur tilted his head. It still just looked like a plane. "Yes, yes quite, uh, beautiful. I just… well, I thought you were talking about your girlfriend."

Alfred laughed again. He laughed so readily, so easily. "Oh Arthur, Arthur. Beth is the only lady who'll ever have my heart." He looked up slowly, smirked slightly, and winked again.

Oh. _Oh_. Bollocks. Arthur was stunned. He had no way to react to that, so he just drank quickly and hoped Alfred didn't notice his burning cheeks. Then he quickly glanced around, realised they were the last two in the pub, and started to stand. "Looks like closing time."

"Hey, come now, how about one more drink to round off the night?" Alfred grinned pleadingly up at him. His eyes were so blue, his expression so eager, his face so handsome when he smiled…

Arthur paused, wondered very briefly if this was a good idea, then sat back down slowly. Surely one more couldn't hurt.

_One hour later…_

"And ANOTHER thing," Arthur shouted. "Is it so bloody hard to use the letter 'u'? _'Color,'_ _'honor,'_ bloody… bloody, uh, _'flavor'_…" Arthur trailed off and tried to locate his drink on the table. The bloody thing kept moving. Finding it, he took a deep sip and continued. "And so on and so forth… don't even get me STARTED on the letter 's'. Where do you Yanks get off butchering proper English spelling?"

"Well, um, I'm no grammar expert, but…"

"And BASEBALL!" Arthur shouted, swinging his drink and barely noticing half of it land on Alfred. "How the hell do you play baseball? It makes no bloody sense!"

"I'll explain baseball to you, if you explain cricket to me," said Alfred, wiping the rum from his shirt.

"Hey, hey," said Arthur, wagging a finger at Alfred, or in his general direction. Alfred kept moving as well. "Nothing wrong with the great game of cricket. Tradition. Gentleman's game. Sport of Kings."

"I thought that was horse racing."

Arthur waved a hand. "Sport of, sport of Princes then. Dukes. Sport of Baronets at the very least." Noticing his drink was empty, Arthur reached for the bottle. It suddenly disappeared. "Hey…"

"Maybe you've had enough."

Arthur glared at Alfred through bleary eyes. "I own a bloody pub, I'll tell _you_ when I've had enough! And, and, the other thing. You know, the thing."

"The thing."

"Yes, that thing. It's stupid. Oh, and your food is terrible. Don't you agree, Matthew?"

"Uh, Matthew's not here anymore."

Arthur squinted at the identical blonde next to Alfred. "Who's the chap next to you then?"

"All right, seeing double, it's time to go to bed."

"What? Hey!" Suddenly the ground flew away from him. It took Arthur a few seconds to realise he was lying over Alfred's shoulder. "HEY! What is the meaning of this? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Where's your bedroom?"

Arthur gasped indignantly even as his cheeks burned. "I'm not telling you that!"

"Why not?"

"I don't even know what sort of man you are!"

"I assure you, I'm a perfect gentleman."

"No you're not, you're an American. Ah… blimey, how did we end up upstairs?"

"Never mind. Where's your room?"

"At the end of the thing. The whatsit. The hall. I'm warning you, Yank, I'm tougher than I look!"

Was Alfred laughing? Arthur tried to kick him in indignation. The next thing he knew he was being tossed onto his bed. Arthur glanced around at his familiar white walls, green curtains, and sparse furnishings.

"Gosh… how did I get here?"

"Magic," said Alfred, grinning down at Arthur.

"That thing! There! That bloody grin! Why do you always grin like that?"

Alfred just kept doing it. "Does it bother you?"

Arthur could feel his shoes being pulled off. Why was Alfred pulling his shoes off… "No," he said huffily. "Actually, it… makes me…feel…" Sinking into the soft pillow beneath him, Arthur could not keep his eyes open anymore. He sighed deeply as they drifted shut. The last thing he felt before falling asleep was a light kiss to his forehead. But he may have imagined it.


	2. Chapter 2

Bright sunlight crept under Arthur's eyelids and forced them open. He groaned loudly and threw the blanket over his head to block it out. Weeks of overcast days and it had to be sunny on this one. Arthur clasped his head in his hands and tried to stop it exploding. Why the hell did he feel so… Suddenly the memory of the night before hit him like a fist, his stomach turning violently. What had he done? What had he said? Oh God how had he ended up in bed without his shoes and… Arthur quickly patted himself down and thankfully found his clothing intact, although he had lost his tie, apron and shoes somewhere along the way. He buried his head in the pillow and tried not to scream. Well that was the last time he would ever see that bloody American… but that was a good thing, yes? Arthur only felt sick at the thought. But that might also be from the copious quantities of rum he'd consumed the night before. What on earth had he been thinking?

Well, to be completely honest, he knew what he'd been thinking. He'd been thinking that Alfred was the most handsome man he'd ever laid eyes on. He'd been thinking that no one else in the world laughed like him, spoke like him, smiled like him. He'd been wondering what the hell a handsome, popular, confident young fighter pilot like Alfred was doing wasting his time talking to a boring old bartender like him. And he had drunk heavily to try and make sense of it, obviously scaring Alfred off in the process.

Trying to throw it all out of his mind, Arthur dragged himself out of bed to begin getting ready for the day ahead. It wasn't like he had never dealt with a hangover before. It was just the sudden memories that kept appearing unbidden… Alfred grinning and winking, Alfred leaning towards him, Alfred laughing, Alfred carrying him… "AGH!" Arthur tried to shake his head of the unwanted recollections. They just grew stronger, replaying over and over. Arthur decided there was nothing to be done but get dressed, go down to work, and forget he had ever met an American pilot named Alfred F. Jones.

The morning passed uneventfully. A few Americans came in for an early lunch with local girls on their arms, but the place was generally quiet. Arthur gave thanks for small mercies and spent his time avoiding a certain table by the window, while running a cold cloth over his forehead when no one was looking.

At noon, Arthur stood behind the bar, the cold cloth over his face, working hard on erasing the last week from his memory when it was all blown to hell by two words.

"Howdy, Arthur!"

Arthur jumped in surprise, the cloth falling to the floor. He looked up at Alfred, his face dripping, his heart suddenly thundering in his chest. All he could think to say was, "Good God man, do you have to yell so loud?"

Alfred looked amused. "I didn't yell…"

Arthur pressed on, slightly embarrassed. "Well I just have this flipping great headache…"

"Yeah, I'm not surprised," laughed Alfred. Arthur glared at him and Alfred cleared his throat. "So anyway," he continued, leaning on the bar, "I was thinking, that if this relationship is ever gonna go anywhere, we'd better start seeing each other in the daytime."

"Relationship?" Arthur's head still felt fuzzy… he must have heard that wrong.

"Show me the sights of London!" Alfred was all intensity and eagerness, dressed immaculately in his military uniform and cap along with the ever-present bomber jacket. Arthur tried very hard not to acknowledge the effect it had on him and tried instead to look annoyed.

"What? I'm working, I'm… I'm…"

Alfred grinned. "It's a beautiful sunny day out there, you're gonna spend it all in here with a cloth on your face?"

Arthur closed his eyes. Why could he not resist that bloody grin? "Very well," he said through gritted teeth. "Let me fetch my coat."

An hour later they had hardly seen anything of interest in Arthur's mind, but Alfred was fairly hopping in excitement. As they stood on the deck of a river boat crossing the Thames, Arthur was quickly growing embarrassed by all the stares the energetic American drew from fellow passengers.

"Wow, wow, oh my gosh! What do you call that thing again?"

Arthur peered sideways at Alfred pointing madly. "London Bridge."

"Wow!" Alfred's face lit up like a Christmas tree as he craned his neck looking upwards.

Arthur could not see why Alfred was impressed. "…It's just a bridge."

"It's LONDON bridge!" Alfred cried excitedly. "Like that song! You know… _London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down, London Bridge is…"_

"Yes, yes all right, for heaven's sake…" Arthur tried to quiet Alfred as his raucous singing caught the humoured and surprised attention of several onlookers. "I know the blasted song."

"Are we hopping off over the river? Where are we going next? Can we see the bridge closer? I tell ya, all this walking is making me hungry." Alfred pulled something out of his pocket and starting unwrapping it. Arthur groaned when he realised it was a chocolate bar. He put his hand to his head, exasperated, and hoped the other passengers wouldn't notice.

"Alfred."

"Hmm?"

"You're eating chocolate."

"I know. Do you want some?" Alfred held out the bar.

"No… I…" Arthur didn't know quite how to tell Alfred that he was being rather rude considering everyone in Britain had been on sweets rations for years. He leant in and whispered. "We've been at war for quite a while here. Things like this are very hard to come by for us."

"Ohh," breathed Alfred, his eyes going wide. He glanced around guiltily. "I have more, should I offer everyone else some?"

Arthur almost laughed, but quickly stopped when he realised Alfred was serious. "Wait, Alfred, what are you…"

"Greetings folks!" Alfred turned and called out cheerfully to the passengers behind him. Arthur was horrified as everyone stared openly, obviously unsure what to make of this loud, strange American. "I'm Lieutenant Alfred Jones, all the way from the US of A, and I just wanted to say that I'm honoured to be here in your terrific city! Now I'm hoping some of you fine people can help me out with a small problem I have. You see, I'm shipping out soon to fight the Krauts in Italy, and I have all this candy I don't know what to do with!" Alfred pulled out a handful of chocolate bars, attracting the immediate attention of several small children who inched closer.

"Candy?" asked a little girl, tilting her head in confusion.

Alfred shot Arthur an inquiring look. "Sweets," Arthur managed to murmur in bewildered explanation.

Alfred turned back to the girl, laughed raucously, and explained, "That's what we Americans call sweets! Now I don't know what might happen if I took these sweets over to Italy with me..."

A little boy gasped and said, "The Krauts might steal 'em off you!"

Alfred gasped also, his expression drawn in mock horror. "They might, too! Well, we can't let that happen can we?"

The children shook their heads, moving slowly towards Alfred, their eyes fixed on the chocolate in his hands. Arthur's face was frozen in shock, as were some of the passengers'. Others, however, were smiling, a few of the women were giggling to each other, and the children were positively enthralled.

"Do you think you might be able to help an ally out and take 'em off my hands?" asked Alfred, smiling widely and offering the chocolate bars to the children. "It's really good... Hershey's, all the way from America!" Each of them took a bar, giggling happily, before running back to their parents. Alfred tipped his hat to his gawking audience. "Have a good day, folks!" He turned back around and winked at Arthur.

Arthur shook his head. "You're quite mad."

Alfred just laughed, then pulled another bar from his pocket. "I saved the last one for you."

Arthur could not stop his lips pulling into a smile. He tried in vain to furrow his brows and wipe the smile from his face. "Fine." He snatched the bar and jammed it in his own pocket.

"I like that," said Alfred, staring at Arthur.

"What?" asked Arthur huffily. How bloody irritating that he could not even control his facial expressions around the American.

"When you smile."

Arthur cast his eyes out at the river, the smile finally falling from his face and the back of his neck flushing with heat. They stood in silence, but he could feel Alfred's eyes on him for the rest of the short journey.

"What is that tall bridge over there?" asked Alfred, after they had arrived at the port across the river and walked a while along the bank. It was the finest day in months, the sun high and a gentle breeze blowing. It was hard to believe it was winter - Arthur could not ever remember a milder one in London.

"That there is Tower Bridge."

Alfred's face lit up again. "That one is terrific!"

"And that is the Tower of London," said Arthur, pointing over the street.

"Ooh, fantastic!" cried Alfred. They stopped and stared over at the imposing buildings. "What's in there?"

"German prisoners of war, currently. And traitors, and enemy spies." Arthur wracked his brains to think of what else they were keeping in the tower these days. "And, uh… ravens."

Alfred looked truly fascinated. "Ravens, really?" He looked around eagerly. "Is there any way we can get in there?"

"Well, there is one." Alfred raised his eyebrows inquisitively and Arthur smirked. "Betray Britain."

Alfred's face fell in disappointment. "Oh. I don't think I want to do that. Even to see the ravens."

"Oh, the ravens aren't the most interesting thing about the place," said Arthur.

"Really?" asked Alfred, intrigued. "What else is in there?"

"Ghosts," said Arthur wickedly. He gazed across at the tower as he spoke. "The Tower of London is the most haunted place in Britain, if not the entire world. There are dozens of ghosts in there… Lady Jane Grey, the Princes in the tower, Sir Walter Raleigh…" Arthur found ghost stories fascinating, and he'd always loved the ones about the tower. "On stormy nights, the ghost of Anne Boleyn is said to walk the tower, dressed all in white and carrying her severed head under her arm…" Arthur turned to find that Alfred was no longer standing beside him. He looked around, confused. "Alfred?" He walked a few paces before spotting Alfred further down the road, leaning against a tree and looking like he couldn't breathe. Arthur gasped and ran to him. "Blimey man, are you all right?" he asked, concerned by the pale green colour of Alfred's face.

Alfred looked up with wide eyes, clutching his chest, sweat beading his brow. "I… don't… like… ghosts!"

Arthur tried not to, but he burst into hysterical laughter. They quickly left, steered away insistently by Alfred, who kept glancing back fearfully as though the ghost of Anne Boleyn was on his heels. Arthur had been happy to walk along the river, but Alfred was desperate to get far away, as fast as possible, and headed straight for the nearest bus stop. Arthur couldn't stop snickering… the loud, brash, swaggering American was afraid of ghosts.

Alfred seemed to get over his terror rather quickly however, and whistled as the red double-decker pulled up at the bus stop. "Wow! It's one of those super tall ones!" he said as he swung himself up onto the platform. "Howdy, Miss." Alfred tipped his hat to the pretty young conductor who giggled and smiled at him. She barely even looked at Arthur as he purchased their tickets.

Arthur made his way into the crowded bus. Finding an empty seat, he was just about to sit down when he realised Alfred was, once again, nowhere to be seen. "What now?" he muttered, then winced when he heard a familiar loud voice shout down the stairs.

"Hey Arthur! There's a whole other bus up here!"

Arthur felt every passenger's eyes stare at him. He smiled apologetically. "Sorry. Uh… he's American." Arthur hurried up the stairs. He proceeded to spend the rest of the drive trying to get Alfred to sit down, apologising to the other passengers, and on one occasion having to haul the stupid Yank back into the bus when he tried to lean out the window to shout a greeting to some American soldiers on the sidewalk. Arthur was relieved when they finally reached their destination, though probably not so relieved as the other commuters.

It was difficult to keep up with Alfred. Arthur didn't know where he got his energy from, but it was endless. He tried to keep pace as Alfred barrelled down the busy streets, weaving amongst the mass of pedestrians, talking non-stop as he went.

"I've really never been in a city this big before, you know? This place is huge! I mean, I was in New York, but not for long, before we shipped out. Now that was one wild city! I'll take you there after the war, Arthur. We'll see it all together. And then I'll show you where I live. It's only a small town… we don't have nothing so fancy as all this, but you'll really love it, Arthur, I know you will."

"I… I…" Arthur was a little thrown, unable to believe Alfred, and unsure whether he wanted to. "That's rather a long way to go, isn't it?"

"Nah, it'll be fine! I'll fly you there in Lady Beth!"

Arthur raised his eyebrows skeptically. "I don't think your plane will make it from England to America, Alfred."

"'Course she will!" Alfred grinned, and even in this bright, busy street, Arthur felt his breath knocked from him. That bloody grin.

"And how will… um… 'she'… manage that?" Arthur was caught in Alfred's gaze as they walked, unheeding of the street traffic that narrowly avoided them.

"Magic." Alfred winked. Arthur stared, transfixed, until Alfred looked away and gasped loudly. "Ooh, ooh!" Alfred practically skidded to a stop, his eyes fixed upward. "I know that one!" he cried. "That's Big Bob!"

The spell was broken, and Arthur again burst into laughter. "Ben."

"Huh?"

"It's called Big Ben!" Arthur explained. "Well, actually, it's not the tower that's named Big Ben… that happens to be the name of one of the bells."

"Really? Huh. You sure know a lot, Arthur." Alfred stood stock still in the middle of the footpath, staring up at the clock tower. A busy crowd surged around him, but he didn't move.

"Alfred?" Arthur waited a few moments, but Alfred did not budge. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting for it to ding." Alfred said it like it was obvious.

Arthur did not fancy his chances of getting Alfred to move, so he simply stood still as the passing pedestrians shot them strange looks and parted around them. He watched Alfred watching the clock, until after only a few minutes it rang in the hour.

"Haha, fantastic! All righty, where to now? Ooh, can we go in that strange looking building over there?" And Alfred took off, headed towards Westminster Abbey down the road. "Keep up, old man!"

Arthur scowled. "I beg your pardon?" he called, hurrying to catch up. He was, however, grateful for the tiny break. He really was starting to feeling like an old man today.

Once inside the dark abbey, Alfred quickly lost his cheerful grin. He moved along slowly, glancing around suspiciously, pressed quite close to Arthur's side. Arthur couldn't help finding it rather amusing.

"This place is creepy," Alfred whispered nervously as they walked slowly past the low stone coffins. "There aren't dead bodies in these things, are there?"

Arthur wasn't quite sure if he was serious. They were coffins, after all. "Oh, no," he said sarcastically. "They're stone all the way through."

"Oh." Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. "Well that's okay then."

Arthur glanced at Alfred quizzically. Surely he hadn't taken him seriously... "They're coffins, of course there are bodies…" He fell quiet as Alfred tensed up again. Apparently he had. "Ah, just forget it, Alfred."

Alfred was quite insistent they leave after that. "You Brits sure are big on the scary old buildings, ain't ya?" he asked as he hurried out into the street. Again, Arthur couldn't help laughing.

The pedestrian traffic thinned as they walked further down the street. Alfred started to slow, and eventually came to a stop in front of a roped off bomb site. Only one wall of the building was left standing, fixed at a dangerously skewed angle; the rest reduced to flattened rubble around it. Alfred whistled. "Whew, the Krauts sure did a number on that one."

Arthur nodded. "Quite. We still have quite a lot of sites left like this one. From the Blitz, you know." It suddenly struck Arthur how young Alfred looked, standing there in shock, gazing into the ruins.

"Innocent people shouldn't have to go through this," said Alfred, shaking his head as though he did not understand. "Women and old people and kids and stuff. That's just not right." He turned and looked at Arthur with wide, bright eyes. "That's why I'm doing this, you know." Alfred gestured over the wreckage. "I'm gonna stop this happening here, or back home, or anywhere else. Because we're the good guys, Arthur. I'm gonna go to Europe and put a stop to this, you'll see. I'm gonna save London!"

And Alfred sounded so young also, like he honestly believed he could take on the world. Arthur's heart swelled despite himself. Why did Alfred have to be so naive, so good, so _stupid_... "Come on, Alfred. There's a lovely park just up here I want to show you."

"Oh, great!" Alfred fell briskly into pace beside Arthur, snapping back into high spirits; but he didn't have quite the same spring in his step as before.

Alfred finally slowed down when they reached St James Park. The air started to chill as they wandered aimlessly past trees and gardens and couples taking an afternoon stroll. As they passed a park bench beneath a dense, leafy tree, Alfred lightly took Arthur's arm and led him over to it. Arthur felt the touch shoot through his nerves, and was surprised by the sudden nervousness it evoked. He sat down and felt something pull tight in his pocket. Confused, he reached in and pulled out the chocolate bar Alfred had handed him earlier. "Oh," he said in realisation. "Blimey, forgot about that."

"Try it!" said Alfred fervently. "American chocolate is the best chocolate in the whole world!"

Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Is that so."

"It is! Try it! Don't you like chocolate?"

Arthur sighed wearily, ripped open the bar, and took a bite. He paused, surprised. It actually was very good. "It's passable, I suppose."

Alfred looked amusedly doubtful. "Passable."

"Mm-hm."

"That must be why you're scoffing the whole thing."

Bollocks. Arthur glared at Alfred. He hurried to finish his mouthful.

"So it's that hard to get candy here, huh?"

Arthur shrugged, discreetly wrapping the last of the chocolate in its wrapper. "Well, we're on rations. Everything is hard to get right now."

Alfred sighed and leant back, throwing his arms across the top of the bench. Arthur jumped nervously when Alfred's hand brushed his back. "You Brits have had it tough for a few years, haven't ya."

Arthur almost laughed incredulously. Alfred had no idea. "London is different now from a few years ago. So much has been destroyed. After the Blitz…" Arthur broke off and shuddered, still overwhelmed by awful memories. The dread of the coming nightfall, the evil of the air raid signal, those horrifying moments crouching in shelters and unable to sleep through the noise. The terror which quickly gave way to a numbing acceptance; never knowing what would be standing and who would be breathing in the morning. Arthur felt a brief brush of Alfred's hand against his.

"I remember seeing a film about it back home a few years ago," said Alfred quietly. "A docmenary."

Arthur tried not to laugh. It was a welcome distraction. "Documentary."

"Yeah, one of them." Alfred shook his head and stared up at the sky. "People all huddled in bomb shelters, and sirens going off, and dozens of Heinkel bombers flying over and flattening buildings to rubble - just like that one in the street before. It looked like you really had it rough."

"We did. We still do." So Alfred did know a little of the earlier war after all. His words brought back memories far too easily. "But we're strong. We made it through then, and we'll make it through now. We're British, after all."

Alfred smiled at that. "I'm starting to see quite a bit about you Brits."

"And does the American like what he sees?" asked Arthur.

"Yes," said Alfred softly, his eyes intense as he stared at Arthur. "He certainly does."

Arthur's neck burned despite the chilly wind. He dropped his gaze to his feet.

"Well, I'm impressed," said Alfred, his voice rising to its usual loud volume. "Your city is fantastic."

Arthur raised his eyes to Alfred's grinning face and smiled back. "I know."

The air was near freezing and the sun quickly descending in the sky by the time they strolled slowly passed the gates of Buckingham Palace. Alfred, as usual, looked excited and fascinated. Arthur could not understand how he was still so energetic.

"Oh, gosh! Oh, wow! That's where the king lives!"

Arthur nodded wearily. "Yes, Alfred."

"Can we see him?"

Arthur furrowed his brows, taken aback. "The king?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh yes, absolutely, I'll just trot right in and see if old George will have us for afternoon tea, shall I?"

Alfred looked gobsmacked. "You can do that?"

Arthur shook his head, partly amused, partly exasperated. Alfred obviously had a little trouble with the concept of sarcasm. "Why don't we go back to the Emerald Lion and have afternoon tea there, instead?"

"With the king?" asked Alfred eagerly. Arthur just looked at him. "Oh, you mean, obviously... right." Alfred coughed and Arthur hid a smirk behind his hand. "Well sure, Art, that sounds swell. Only, I don't actually have to drink tea, do I?"

"No. And Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Arthur."

"Of course it is."

But Arthur couldn't feel angry. Sure, he was a little tired, slightly exasperated, and quite confused as to why Alfred was still intent on spending time with him. But he was also happier than he could remember feeling in years. And he had just spent the best day of his life, in the greatest city in the world, with a slight hangover and the most interesting, wonderful, bloody frustrating American he had ever met.


	3. Chapter 3

"Right, so I grasp it here like this…"

"Put your hand here… down more."

"Like that?"

"That's it, now grip it a bit more firmly…"

"This feels incredibly awkward…"

"You have to open your hands up slightly… put your other one up here… thaaat's it. And open your legs a bit more."

"Agh! It's just a bloody bat, it shouldn't be this complicated," grumbled Arthur, trying for what felt like the eightieth time to stand in a batting stance that Alfred found acceptable. He felt like he was going to fall over. And it really did not help when Alfred stood behind him and placed his hands over Arthur's own, trying to correct his technique. Arthur's back burned where Alfred's chest pressed against it, he almost thought he felt Alfred's breath on his neck, and he hoped fervently that Alfred could not feel him shaking slightly.

When Alfred had walked into the Emerald Lion earlier, brandishing a bat and proclaiming he would explain the 'Great American Sport of Baseball,' Arthur had not imagined that he would be expected to actually _play_ the blasted game. Now here he stood in the middle of the local cricket green, trying to remember the difference between a strike and a slide, and attempting to hit the bloody ball at least once. A pile of clothes sat nearby: Alfred's bomber jacket and cap; Arthur's coat and tie. The sky was just as high and warm as the day before, with no reminder of the earlier weeks of rain. It was like Alfred had brought the sun.

"Now bend your elbows a bit more… loosen your grip a little… there you are, I think you have the hang of it." Alfred stepped back and Arthur suppressed the feeling of disappointment. "Now, eye on the ball, all right?" Alfred picked up the ball, tossing it between his hands as he walked backwards away from Arthur, his handsome face cheerful and his bright hair glinting in the sunlight. "Twelfth time lucky!"

"Oh shut up," grumbled Arthur, taking a few practice swings.

"Here we go!"

Alfred threw the ball. Arthur swung. He missed. "BOLLOCKS!" Arthur threw the bat to the ground. "This game is utterly absurd! And stop laughing!"

"I'm sorry!" Alfred managed to choke out through hysterical laughter. "It's just, honestly, I've never seen anyone miss so many…"

"I am quite done with this baseball nonsense!" interrupted Arthur. He refused to admit to himself he was embarrassed. "Take your bloody bat, I'll show you a real bloody sport…"

After procuring a cricket bat and ball from the nearby club, Arthur sauntered back onto the pitch, eager to knock the cocky grin off Alfred's face. Alfred hadn't seemed to have gotten over his laughing fit, however. He placed his hands on his hips and watched Arthur amusedly. "All right then Arthur, what have you got to show me?"

Arthur scowled, despite his stuttering heart. That blasted arrogance drove him mad. "Let's just see how good you are at a real game, shall we?"

Unfortunately, it didn't take long for Alfred to grasp the basics of cricket - apart from a few mistakes in terminology. "Okay, so let me get this straight," he said after Arthur gave him a quick rundown of the game. "The pitcher…"

"Bowler."

"Bowler stands here," said Alfred, jumping around at one end of the pitch next to Arthur. "And then the, uh, guy with the bat…" Alfred took off towards the other end of the pitch.

"Batsman," Arthur yelled after him.

"Batsman stands here..." Alfred called back. "Only there's normally two of 'em, and the other one stands over where you are, with the pitcher – ah, bowler."

"Yes, that's right."

"Okay. And the catcher…"

"Wicket keeper."

"Yeah him, he's here." Alfred tapped the ground with the cricket bat.

"Precisely. Jolly good. Are you ready?"

Alfred turned side-on and held his bat in position. "Lay it on me, buddy!"

Arthur smirked. "Let's see how bloody impressive you are now, Alfred Jones." Arthur lined up on the pitch, ran, and bowled the ball. Alfred hit it clear of the field.

"How many is that? Was that a six?" he called. "Do I have to run now?"

Arthur could have strangled him.

That night at the Emerald Lion, Alfred seemed quite proud of his new cricketing prowess, and had no hesitation in professing it to anyone who would listen. "So cricket's really not all that different from baseball in the end," he said to a group of Americans as they clustered around the bar. Arthur wiped the bar top down, silently fuming. "I mean there's a bat, there's a ball, you hit it and you run. Simple as that. There's even a catcher."

"Wicket keeper," muttered Arthur irritably.

"What did you think of baseball, Arthur?" asked Matthew, taking a sip of bourbon and ignoring Alfred. He was clearly used to his boasting.

"Well," said Arthur as several Americans turned and stared at him. "It's, uh..." It was frustrating, made no sense, and all he could remember of the strategy was Alfred's arms around him. "... jolly hard to hit the ball," he finished lamely.

Matthew nodded understandingly. "I never quite got the hang of it, either."

"That's because it's obviously an American game and you foreigners just can't handle it," said Alfred with a grin on his face that was entirely irritating. Arthur wondered how he had ever mistaken it for charming. The other Americans cheered appreciatively at Alfred's statement.

"May I remind you, that you are the foreigner here." Arthur spoke through gritted teeth.

"Exactly," said Matthew, discreetly kicking Alfred in the shin. "So if I were you, Lieutenant Jones, I'd show a little respect... or who knows." Matthew gave Arthur a tiny smile. "You might get kicked out of here and never invited back."

Arthur decided he liked Matthew.

"Aw, Arthur wouldn't do that to me, would you?" Alfred leant on the bar and grinned at Arthur. "How about I apologise, and we'll call it even?" He winked. Arthur clenched his fist around the washcloth. "And can you pour me another bourbon?"

One of these days Arthur was going to teach Alfred the meaning of the word 'please'. He turned to get the bottle of bourbon, only to find it empty. He sighed. It would be his third trip to the cellar that evening. Arthur dropped the washcloth and dusted off his hands.

"Or even a scotch would do," said Alfred, noticing the empty bourbon.

Arthur waved a hand. "I'll have to get some bourbon regardless." He paused. Scotch. That reminded him… he looked up at Alfred and smiled sweetly. "Actually, would you mind awfully if I asked you to help me bring some up from the cellar?" Remembering Alfred's terror at the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey, Arthur devised a plan to knock arrogant Alfred down a few pegs.

"Well," said Alfred, leaning further over the bar and lowering his voice so only Arthur could hear him, "when you smile like that, how can I possibly say no?" And suddenly he was charming again. Arthur quickly scowled.

"Follow me." Arthur led Alfred to the back of the room and down the creaky, narrow stairs, descending into the cold and dark cellar. The brightness and noise of the pub faded immediately, leaving only a faintly dusty smell and a dim, shady light that threw shadows on the walls. Alfred slowed and his shoulders stiffened. Arthur smiled deviously to himself.

"Ah, this place of yours is a little creepy, Arthur," said Alfred, his head darting back and forth. "Just like all these old English buildings…"

"Do you think so?" asked Arthur innocently. "It dates back to the eighteenth century, you know. And it is built on ruins far older than that."

"Is... is that right?" asked Alfred nervously.

"Mm-hm. The bourbon is in this far corner, right over here." Arthur lead Alfred deep into the shadowy cellar. Alfred followed slowly. "Funny, these old pubs," Arthur continued as he ducked behind a shelf stocked with bottles and barrels. "There's always a story."

"Oh." Alfred's voice was small and trembling slightly.

"Would you like to hear ours?" There was indeed a story to the Emerald Lion. Arthur's brothers had told it to him as a child to scare him. It had never worked, however. Arthur loved ghost stories, and frankly he'd always wished there really was a spirit haunting the place when he was all alone in the cold, empty building.

"…sure," squeaked Alfred. He quickly cleared his throat and spoke in a voice a little deeper than usual. "I mean, uh, sure." Clearly Alfred did not feel the same way.

Arthur laughed quietly to himself. He passed two bottles of bourbon to Alfred, then leant down to fetch a couple more. "The legend goes, that in the early nineteenth century, this pub belonged to a young married couple who were very much in love. One day, the young chap was called away to fight the French in the Napoleonic wars. The young woman waited patiently. Every night, she left a glass of scotch on the mantelpiece, in the hope that he would come home to drink it - as was his custom in the evening." Arthur carefully and discreetly manoeuvred a barrel of bourbon so that it was sitting on the very edge of the shelf. He stood and faced Alfred, who stood stock still, gripping the bourbon bottles with shaking hands.

"But every morning she would wake to find the glass still full," Arthur continued. "Eventually, the news of the Battle of Waterloo reached London, and with it the knowledge that thousands of English soldiers had been killed. But she refused to give up hope. That night, she put out the glass of scotch, the same as any other evening. The next morning, though... it was empty."

Alfred gasped, his expression twisted in terror. Arthur hid a smirk and continued sinisterly.

"Again that evening she put out the glass, and again the next morning she found it empty. She repeated this ritual every night of her life until her death of old age." Arthur paused dramatically and walked slowly towards Alfred, lowering his voice to a soft, eerie tone.

"But the strange thing is, that in the hundred years since, occasionally a glass of scotch will be found sitting on the mantelpiece at the end of the evening. And it is well known that if this happens, you must leave it. For if you are to empty it before morning..." Arthur trailed off and left the sentence hanging, suspended, as he stared at Alfred's pale face with wide, unblinking eyes.

Alfred's face was frozen in a horrified glare. He swallowed heavily. "What?" he finally whispered. "What happens if you empty it?"

"I don't know," Arthur whispered back. "Because no one has ever lived to tell."

At that moment, the barrel of bourbon Arthur had loosened fell and crashed loudly to the floor. Alfred shrieked, dropped both bottles of bourbon, and fled up the cellar stairs. Arthur laughed triumphantly. "_Now_ we're even, Alfred Jones." He cleaned up the mess, fetched a few new bottles of bourbon, and was quite pleased with himself until he ascended the stairs to find Alfred frantically trying to pull a glass from a customer's hands as they stood by the mantelpiece. It took Matthew and three Americans to drag Alfred away, all while he shouted that he was simply trying to save the unwitting customer from the deadly wrath of a vengeful ghost. Arthur had to offer the customer free beer for a month. Evidently, he couldn't win.

Over the next few nights, Alfred stayed late at the pub after all the soldiers had left. They talked about everything. About Alfred's farm back in the states. About Arthur's family and how his parents had died and his brothers had left him… how they hated him. About Alfred's plane, over and over, his sweet Lady Beth that he described so many times that Arthur felt he knew her himself. About Arthur's fears that he wouldn't manage, would never live up to his parent's expectations, and that in the end his brothers would be right and he would fail. And sometimes in those last dark hours, when everyone else had left and the sky was growing grey, Alfred would talk about his own fears. About the possibility of failure; that maybe he never _would_ make a difference; the fact that very few pilots made it through unscathed. It was these rare talks that scared Arthur the most, and not knowing how it got there, his hand would slip into Alfred's, and he would wonder if he would ever cling to it in the future.

"I'm astonished you are allowed out of the base this late," said Arthur, reaching for his rum. It was nearly empty. He was pretty bloody careful with his drinks around Alfred now... the last thing he wanted to do was make a fool of himself again. It was late one evening, everyone had left, and once again Arthur was having a few drinks with Alfred after close. Arthur had come to cherish this time, though he would never let Alfred know it.

"Ah, it's good to be a pilot shipping out," said Alfred cheerfully. "We're dead anyway, so they let us do as we like in our last days." Alfred laughed loudly, but Arthur flinched and looked away. Alfred fell silent. "Arthur? Is something wrong?"

"I just don't think that's terribly funny, that's all."

Alfred paused before responding. "Sorry. Sometimes it's easier to joke about it, ya know?"

Arthur nodded. But the words sent a cold tremor down his spine. The idea that Alfred... no. It was too painful to think about. "Do you ever get... scared?" he asked finally, quietly.

Alfred scoffed. "No!" Arthur just stared at him over his drink. Alfred's smile faded, then he finally sighed and looked down. "I'm good, Arthur. I'm really good. And I'm not just boasting when I say that, I mean it. That's why I'm a flight leader."

"I know, Alfred. I believe you."

"But it doesn't matter how good you are. Because in the end, all it takes is a split second mistake, or the smallest navigational error, or a Kraut who is just a tiny bit better than you... and that's it." Alfred's eyes were dark, his expression uncertain, and he suddenly looked so young. It was the first time Arthur had seen the loud, cheerful, confident pilot like this. It was scary, and strange, but it was honest, and Arthur felt his chest swell almost painfully. Then Alfred reached out his hand and Arthur took it slowly, nervously. "I try not to think about it, but… I can't change the fact that most fighter pilots don't make it home."

Arthur did not respond. He just clung to Alfred's warm, firm hand. He didn't know what he was to Alfred. He wasn't sure what the American wanted. Whether it was company outside of the unit he saw every day, a sympathetic ear in these dark mornings, or something Arthur dared not admit to himself for the heart-crushing fear he would be wrong. But Arthur knew what Alfred was to him. He was a light in the darkness Arthur had lived for too long. He was air when before Arthur couldn't breathe. Alfred had worked his way into Arthur's heart just in time for Arthur to lose him.

"But Arthur." Alfred winked, and brought Arthur back to this moment and this conversation. "I ain't most fighter pilots." Arthur almost laughed. That was the Alfred he knew. "That radio of yours work?" asked Alfred, quickly changing the subject and nodding to the radio behind the bar counter.

Arthur shook his head of the fears that clouded it. "Yes. I don't often listen to it, however." The radio bothered Arthur these days. If it wasn't censored news updates, or that awful Lord Haw Haw's German propaganda, it was those terribly sad wartime songs like the ones Miss Lynn did so well.

"Hey now, why's that? You should play it more often. This place could use a little music!" Alfred sprung up and raced to the bar, switched on the radio, and attempted to tune it. "I'm sure we can get something decent on this thing…"

Arthur rolled his eyes, finished his rum, and went to help Alfred with the radio. "It's a bastard to tune," he said, taking over and scrolling through static until something definable as music came through the speakers.

Alfred gripped Arthur's arm and waved a hand excitedly. "There, there, stop! What's that?"

Arthur groaned as the orchestral tune swelled from the speakers. One of the reasons he didn't listen to the radio… "One of those depressing wartime songs."

"Oh, I know this one!" Alfred inexplicably tugged on his jacket and smoothed his hair. Then he turned to Arthur, bowed, and offered him his hand. "May I have this dance?"

Arthur heart leapt like air swelling in his chest. He suppressed it and scoffed. "Are you mad?"

Alfred shrugged, his eyes alight with joy. "I've been called that on occasion." He grinned. "Dance with me."

Arthur gave a sigh of surrender. He still couldn't resist that grin; so he gave in. He let Alfred take him in his arms and lead him out from behind the bar. Alfred immediately pulled Arthur against him, placed an arm around his waist, and took Arthur's hand in his. Arthur had to admit it… his heart was beating faster and his stomach fluttering madly. Well, that was annoying. Arthur rested his hand on Alfred's shoulder and looked into his handsome face. "This song is manipulative drivel."

"Oh hush! It's pretty." Then, to Arthur's horror, Alfred started singing as he spun Arthur inelegantly around the floor. "_We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when…"_

"Stop it," said Arthur, embarrassed and bewildered and amused all at once. "You can't sing."

Alfred just sang louder, seemingly delighted by Arthur's irritation. _"But I know we'll meet again some sunny day!"_

"Stop it!" Arthur tried desperately not to laugh. It was not funny, it was ridiculous. It was ridiculous, no matter how dazzling Alfred looked as he sang. "You're terrible!"

_"Keep smiling through…" _Alfred's hair was as bright as the sun…

"Stop!"

"… _just like you always do..." _Alfred's eyes were a brilliant clear blue…

"NO!"

_"til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!"_ Alfred was _grinning_…

Arthur finally gave up and burst into laughter. Alfred laughed with him as he continued swinging Arthur around, completely out of beat with the music, while the melody washed around them. At least while Alfred was laughing he couldn't sing.

"I'm sorry," said Alfred through his laughter.

"For the dreadful singing?" Arthur could hardly keep his feet in time with Alfred's, which were far too fast for the slow tune.

"No! I've forgotten the rest of the words…"

"That's quite all right, I assure you!"

"Oh wait… I remember… _So will you please say hello, to the folks that I know, tell them I won't be long…"_

"Oh no!" cried Arthur.

"_They'll be happy to know, that as you saw me go, I was singing this song!"_

Arthur shook his head. Alfred was hopeless. And sweet, and mad, and cheerful and naive and energetic and arrogant and oh how would anything ever return to normal after he was gone? As the music continued to swell, they slowly fell silent. Alfred stopped swinging Arthur in wild circles, instead slowing to a gentle swaying in time with the music. His grip on Arthur's waist tightened as slowly, softly, he brought their hands between their chests. Arthur could barely breathe from the conflicting emotions flowing through him. When the chorus started again, Alfred sang it softly.

_"We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when…"_

Tears stung Arthur's eyes and he lowered his head. How silly to get emotional over such a sappy song. His back quivered where Alfred's hand moved over it gently; his hand trembled as Alfred gripped it almost painfully. Arthur hesitated, unsure, then he leant his head on Alfred's shoulder to hide his shining eyes. He felt Alfred's lips close by his ear, singing the last painfully hopeful words.

"…_but I know we'll meet again, some sunny day."_

* * *

_'We'll Meet Again' _lyrics by Hughie Charles.

(YouTube) /watch?v=c0BJgtQSdEE


	4. Chapter 4

It happened so gradually that Arthur barely noticed it. It seemed that one day his pub fairly swarmed with American soldiers, and the next, the place was almost empty. Of course it had not been that sudden, but when Arthur looked around one sunny afternoon and noticed how few men in uniform were in the pub, he was shocked. Somewhere along the way he had become used to the Americans. And now that there were so few, he couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of sadness… and along with it the awareness of what this sudden emptiness implied. But that was too painful to think of.

Not a day had passed in the last week without Lieutenant Alfred Jones turning up at the bar, grinning cockily and proposing some new and exasperating way to waste Arthur's time. And of course he spent every night in the pub with Arthur, talking and laughing and grinning and winking and even bloody singing. But Arthur had done everything in his power to resist the blinding, magnetic, undeniable attraction the American held. There was no point being drawn in by Alfred's charms. Any way this mess ended, it was going to be bad. But that didn't mean that Arthur could stop himself from spending every moment he possibly could with the handsome, cheerful, bloody frustrating pilot.

And now Arthur stood behind the bar, mindlessly polishing the same glass he had held for the last twenty minutes, trying to convince himself that he was not waiting for a certain American fighter pilot to walk through the door this bright, sunny, endless afternoon. He risked a moment to turn away and place the glass in the case. Almost immediately he heard Alfred's voice behind him.

"Howdy sugar, are you rationed?"

Arthur spun around, smiled widely, then immediately tried to suppress his delight. "I beg your pardon? I've no idea what you're talking about." The smile quickly fell from his face at the look on Alfred's. It made Arthur feel suddenly ill. "Whatever's the matter?"

"Busy this afternoon, is it?" Alfred made an attempt at a grin, but his eyes weren't sparkling, and he didn't lean easily on the bar like he always did. He did not even ask for a bourbon. Arthur poured one anyway.

"Rather steady, I suppose… what's wrong?" Arthur refused to be driven off the subject.

Alfred hesitated. "Come have a drink with me." His eyes, his voice, his fidgeting hands - they all told Arthur that something was different. This was not a regular visit. Arthur nodded slowly, even as his stomach turned slowly cold.

"Very well. Take a seat and I shall be with you in a moment." Arthur turned and put away a few bottles, grabbed a cloth to wipe down the bar top, and tried unsuccessfully to quell the growing dread in his gut. Eventually when the bar top was sparkling clean and nothing remained to delay him, he headed over to the table by the second front window with a glass and a full bottle of rum to sustain him.

They sat in complete silence for a few minutes, tension building, until finally Alfred spoke. "Well, we're… we'll be heading out tomorrow." Alfred placed his glass down and looked into Arthur's eyes. Arthur looked away. Another silence.

"Where?" asked Arthur finally. He tried not to think. Tried not to feel.

"We're stationed somewhere in Italy. There's a landing planned at Anzi… Anza…" Alfred laughed humourlessly. "I can never remember those Italian names."

"Anzio," said Arthur, his body going numb. He tried to swallow. He had known this day was coming, but somehow he had thought they would have a little longer. He shook his head, trying to make sense of it. "That's sudden."

Alfred shrugged. He looked apologetic, his normally cheerful face disturbingly grave. "They don't give us much warning. We knew we were leaving soon though. It's not unexpected."

"I suppose not." Arthur looked past Alfred at the wall. He willed himself to focus on it. There were a few cracks. It would need to be repainted. The noise of the pub washed over him and turned to static in his head. When Alfred spoke it seemed to come from far away.

"I'll write to you."

"Thank you, but I expect you will be so busy. Please don't waste your time on me." And why would he… after all, what was Arthur to Alfred?

"But I…"

Arthur stood hurriedly. "I… I must go. There is so much to do for tomorrow... I mean, this evening, I…" Arthur hastily grasped for his glass of rum, only to knock it over. He ignored it and picked up the bottle instead. "Please, stay safe, and I expect to see you after this great bloody mess is all over, yes? Goodbye, Alfred."

"Arthur..."

Finally Arthur looked back at Alfred. For a long moment their eyes remained locked. Alfred's were wide, pleading. It took all Arthur's strength to tear his away. He turned, almost knocking the chair over in his haste, and rushed from the room. He tried desperately to hold himself together as he passed groups of patrons drinking and talking and laughing. His hands clenched into fists and his eyes stung. Finally he pushed open the back door, hurried up the stairs and through his living area into his bedroom, and slammed the door behind him. Leaning back against it, he covered his face with his hands and promptly burst into tears.

This was absurd, he told himself. He should be relieved to be rid of that annoying American, to get his life back, to not have to deal with this uncertainty and confusion. But all he could feel was a cold, empty hole where his heart used to be. The idea that he would never see Alfred again left him breathless. The thought that he… but no, he couldn't think that. Arthur tore off his apron and tie, threw them angrily to the ground before unscrewing the bottle of rum. He took a deep gulp, unheeding of the burning in his throat. All he wanted was oblivion. He swallowed, breathed deeply, and drank again as the hot tears streamed over his cheeks. He wiped them away impatiently. Alfred was going. Alfred was gone. And Arthur had known all along that he would, but the reality of it knocked him nearly senseless.

After gulping down a few more mouthfuls of rum, Arthur gasped for breath and headed for his bed, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the covers and never come up. But he stopped in his tracks as the door opened behind him. Arthur froze mid-step, feeling his stomach twist and his neck burn. He had forgotten to lock both doors. The door behind him clicked shut and he felt a warm presence at his back. He couldn't turn around.

Alfred's voice was rough and uncertain. "Arthur. I don't want that to be the way we say goodbye."

"Is there a better way?" asked Arthur bitterly. He tried to wipe his tears without making it obvious, but felt Alfred grasp his arm gently but firmly. Arthur forced himself to turn and look at Alfred. "Why did you follow me?"

"Why are you crying?" Alfred asked in a soft voice, ignoring Arthur' question as he gently touched Arthur's damp cheek.

"I… I… I'm not." Arthur tried again to wipe his tears, but Alfred took his hand. The touch sent a shuddering strike across Arthur's skin.

"Because of me?" Alfred took the bottle from Arthur's hand and placed it on a nearby table.

Arthur shook his head, paused, then nodded.

"Did I do something wrong?" Again Alfred sounded uncertain, and Arthur hastened to reassure him.

"No, Alfred. No, I just… I…" Arthur took a deep breath, wiped his eyes, and helplessly let it all come out. "I just want you to know that I never cry and I know I must look completely ridiculous but I don't understand how you do this to me… Oh why did you have to come into my life and make everything wonderful and awful and oh so bloody confusing!" Arthur shut his eyes tight against the tears that refused to stop falling. "And I knew all along that you would leave, so I tried so hard not to feel this, but in the end I couldn't stop falling…" Arthur caught himself before the words slipped out. What if he had this all wrong... what if Alfred was disgusted with him... "Oh bloody hell, this is so absurd!"

"Ssh." Alfred put his arms around Arthur and slowly pulled him close. He leant down and kissed Arthur's eyelids gently. Arthur shivered at the touch, his skin tingling at Alfred's warm breath against him. "I'm sorry. But I couldn't help it. From the second I saw you, all I wanted was to make you smile."

"Don't say that!" said Arthur, half-heartedly trying to push Alfred away. Alfred didn't move. "Don't say it, because you're leaving and I won't ever see you again and I can't bear it, I can't bear that you won't…"

"I'll come back to you," interrupted Alfred.

When Arthur looked up into those smiling blue eyes, he suddenly realised how terrified he was that Alfred wouldn't. "Please Alfred, I…" But unable to give voice to the emotions which flowed through him, Arthur simply grasped Alfred's collar, pulled him down, and kissed him. He abruptly stopped, panicked, and tried to push Alfred away, but was stunned when Alfred reacted strongly, devouring Arthur's mouth as he enclosed his waist with strong arms. Arthur felt such a strong jolt of desire that he was shocked, but when he realised Alfred was responding, everything he had denied feeling came flooding out. He was terrified of Alfred leaving. He was terrified of Alfred forgetting him. He was terrified that maybe he had not meant to Alfred what Alfred had meant to him. He was simply terrified.

Arthur tried to forget the terrifying thoughts by losing himself in Alfred, and he cried out in surprise when Alfred frantically lifted him with strong arms. Arthur's head started spinning. He wrapped his legs around Alfred and, their lips still joined, Alfred carried him to the bed, where they fell down together. And Arthur finally accepted that this was what he had wanted all along. Like this. _Alfred…_

"Alfred… Alfred…" Arthur gasped, clutching onto Alfred's shoulders; placing kisses on his lips, his cheek, his neck, his ears. Arthur's breath caught from the amazement of touching Alfred like this: the way he wanted, the way he had wanted since he first laid eyes on him.

"Arthur, I…" Alfred began, then paused to thoroughly kiss Arthur again. Arthur's defences melted away completely. "Do you want…"

"Yes!" Arthur almost screamed as he thrust towards Alfred uncontrollably. It struck Arthur that they were both very, very aroused. "Ohh yes… I want…" This felt sudden, but it felt right, and it was like everything had been leading to this. Alfred was kissing him. Alfred was touching him. All this time, Arthur hadn't dared dream it. Alfred _wanted _him. "I want this."

Alfred's eyes darkened at the words. He practically ripped Arthur's shirt over his head before doing the same to his own. "I want you," he whispered, and Arthur gasped for air when their bare skin pressed together. It felt electric, unbelievable, perfect… like nothing he had ever felt, or even dared to imagine. Arthur tangled his fingers in Alfred's sweat-dampened hair and desperately sought out his lips again. They tasted of bourbon and sunshine and a slight hint of chocolate. Of Alfred.

Arthur could feel Alfred's heartbeat racing beneath his warm, smooth skin; could feel it thrumming in his hands as they roamed, rough and impatient, across Arthur's trembling body. It was intoxicating. Arthur wanted more. He wanted everything. Breaking the kiss, he reached over to his bedside table, grasped a jar of cold cream, and pressed it into Alfred's shaking hand. Alfred stilled and Arthur silently panicked, afraid he had jumped quickly to the wrong conclusion. But then Alfred's breathing became erratic against Arthur's neck. "Arthur, I've… never…"

Arthur smiled in relief, resting his head in the warm crook of Alfred's shoulder. "Neither have I. But… do you want…"

"Yes!" Alfred pulled Arthur into another heated kiss, reached down and fumbled clumsily at Arthur's trousers. Half amused and painfully aroused, Arthur kicked them off. Alfred quickly opened the jar and Arthur gasped when he felt Alfred's hand suddenly right _there, _cold and wet. Arthur wasn't sure if it really happened that fast or if it was the rum and the sudden exhilaration turning everything into a wild blur. But Alfred was against him, was entering him, and the initial pain didn't matter because everything was wonderful and intense and Arthur had never _felt_ so much in his life. He could hardly make sense of it with the spinning in his head and his frenzy to touch as much of Alfred as he could; to be as close to him as possible; to never let him go.

Arthur lost track of the time they moved together, his head caught in a perfect place where only he and Alfred existed. "Are… are you all right?" Alfred asked with a shaky voice.

"Yes…" Arthur spoke in a tiny whisper, eyes tightly shut, barely able to answer through the waves of pleasure overwhelming him.

"Do you remember… when I told you about my first flight, and I… I couldn't quite explain it?" Alfred spoke with warm, gentle breaths against Arthur's lips.

Arthur's eyes flew open and he gazed into Alfred's. "Yes…" He remembered. Something about intense, breathtaking, being nervous but never wanting it to end…

"It felt like this."

At those words, heat shot through his spine like shards of glass. Arthur fought to maintain control even as he clung tightly to Alfred and they moved in a forceful rhythm. Tingling pleasure permeated every part of him; his body thrummed with tension everywhere Alfred touched. Everything seemed to fade and this was all that existed now – their bodies melding together, their tongues sparring, lips and limbs and sweat and breath. It was all too much. The pleasure narrowed, sharpened, focused, and Alfred's face blurred above him as Arthur released with a soft cry. "I love you," he whispered, his voice broken and muffled by Alfred's shoulder. Half sobbing, half laughing. "Blast it all, I love you."

Alfred gasped, and shuddered, and trembled for a long moment before falling forward onto Arthur. Arthur held him close while they brought their breathing under control. Their bare skin pressed together, slick with sweat. Then Alfred lifted his head, looked into Arthur's eyes, and said, "I love you too."

Arthur buried his face in Alfred's hair, suddenly embarrassed that he had let such words slip. "You don't even know me," he mumbled. Even now it seemed too incredible, too wonderful that Alfred could mean it.

Alfred laughed shakily. "Sure I do." He rolled onto his back and pulled Arthur into his arms. Arthur rested his head on Alfred's chest, enjoying the feel of the hard muscle beneath him. "And I'm gonna find out even more. I wanna read every page there is to read in the book of Arthur."

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know, it just sorta occurred to me."

Arthur smiled against Alfred's chest. "You're hopeless."

"You're perfect."

"Shut up."

Arthur listened to Alfred's heart beating steady and slightly fast beneath him. Their hands entwined while Alfred twirled his thumb gently over Arthur's palm. A warm glow filled Arthur's chest. Alfred - lovely, annoying, incredible Alfred - loved him too. And he was leaving. The late afternoon sunshine flooded through the curtains, illuminating parts of the room while throwing others into shadow. Arthur's quiet contentment turned slowly back to gloom. Alfred seemed to sense it.

"I meant it before, Arthur. I'll make sure I come back to you."

Arthur's breath hitched. He wished he could make himself believe it. "How?" he asked, desperate for Alfred to prove it was true. "How will you do that?"

Alfred winked. "Magic."

Arthur laughed and rolled his eyes. "You've said that a few times. Are you some sort of magician, Lieutenant Jones?"

"I must be. I've made it this far."

"Oh… that reminds me." Arthur turned away from Alfred's blinding grin and reached for his shirt. He retrieved a white embroidered handkerchief from the front pocket and pressed it into Alfred's hand. Arthur hadn't even been certain whether to give the handkerchief to Alfred, unsure if it was inappropriate or too forward. Now was the perfect time, however. "You mentioned you didn't have a lucky charm, so… I embroidered this." Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell anyone," added Arthur gruffly.

"Our little secret," said Alfred, winking. He held the handkerchief up before him. It was pure white, with a red and blue pattern embroidered around the edge. In the corner two crimson letter A's interlaced. Alfred smiled and Arthur focused intently on his hands. "I'm honoured. It ain't no polar bear, but I think it makes one mighty fine lucky charm."

Slightly embarrassed, Arthur grunted and turned his head. He had finished the handkerchief only a few days after that first night they had drunk together, unable to stop thinking of Alfred, unable to stop wondering if his words and actions meant that maybe... just maybe... "How did you know that I was... well..." Arthur didn't know how to phrase the question, but he also knew that Alfred was too dense to understand if he didn't spell it out. "Well, that I was... like you, that I..." Arthur took a deep breath. " ... preferred gentlemen?" Alfred broke into a huge grin and Arthur felt himself turn bright red.

"Well Arthur, I don't know about you Brits, but where I come from if a guy holds your hand and dances with you and gets all red and flustered being shown how to hold a baseball bat, then it's a pretty clear indication he's interested in being a bit more than drinking buddies."

Now Arthur turned white. "You mean you knew... all along that I..."

"The first five times you poured me a bourbon you spilled half of it over the bar. Your hands never shook serving anyone else."

Arthur covered his face. "Oh bloody hell."

Alfred laughed joyfully. "That's why I knew I could say those things to you, about Beth being the only lady in my heart, about liking older men. I knew you'd understand." Alfred took Arthur's hands and kissed him warmly, gently. "You looked like you'd been hiding it a long time, though."

Arthur laughed shakily against Alfred's lips. "You have no idea." He blocked out the painful thoughts that threatened to break through - that yes he had hidden it for too long, only to find someone who understood too late - and watched the shadow growing stronger than the light through the curtain. "It's getting dark."

"Well, you know what you have to do when it gets dark," said Alfred, reaching over and tucking the handkerchief into the pocket of his trousers.

"Hey? What's that?" asked Arthur, confused.

"_Keep smiling through,"_ Alfred broke into song, _"just like you always do…"_

"Oh God!" Arthur covered his ears. "Do _not_ start that nonsense again!"

_"'til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!"_

In his haste to silence the terrible singing, Arthur reached for the nearest weapon he could find. He came up with a pillow and attacked Alfred with it. "You truly are the most awful singer I have ever heard!"

"You lie!" cried Alfred, flailing wildly beneath the pillow.

"Gentlemen never lie!"

"Well that's all well and good, but I was talking about _you_," grinned Alfred.

Arthur gasped indignantly and renewed his assault with the pillow. This time Alfred fought back. By the time they both fell laughing, exhausted onto the soft bed, the light outside was almost gone.

As the sun faded, Arthur and Alfred lay in silence, hands still clasped, their chests rising and falling in a similar rhythm. At some level Arthur realised he should be getting back to work, but he ignored the thought. These may well be the last moments he ever spent with Alfred. He tried to ignore that thought, also. As they lay touching, breathing together, it painfully occurred to Arthur that he had never been so happy in his entire life than he was when with Alfred. And he had spent weeks trying to ignore it and push him away.

Beside him, Alfred hummed the rest of the song he had begun earlier. Arthur felt regret surge through him as he clung to these last precious moments; feeling Alfred's skin against his, breathing Alfred's scent, listening to his gentle humming mixed with uneven breath. Arthur fell asleep to the soft tune of _'We'll Meet Again,'_ lying against Alfred's chest, their hands clasped firmly together.

When Arthur woke, the room was dark, and Alfred was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

_Sunday 30 January, 1944_

_Dear Arthur,_

_I hope this letter reaches you all right. Just a quick note to let you know that all is well. I can't say much… the censors monitor everything we write, and they might cut it out._

_We arrived here the other day. Pretty messed up landing but we are getting on our feet. Hope you are well!_

_From Alfred._

_._

_Sunday 6 February, 1944_

_Dear Arthur,_

_Things getting better. This place is amazing, but I miss… England. Yeah. I think about England all the time. I can't wait to get back to… England._

_Still can't say a lot, but… let's just say the Krauts have good reason to be pretty darn scared now that the Americans are here! Oh, and the Canadian too. Matthew sends his greetings!_

_From Alfred._

.

_Tuesday 15 February, 1944_

_Dear Arthur,_

_Sorry these letters are so short - we're not supposed to say much._

_The weather is good. Food terrible. Still miss England._

_Yesterday was Saint Valentine's Day. Next year I will send a real Valentine. Until then…_

_Lo...__ From Alfred._

.

_Thursday 17 February, 1944_

_Dear Arthur,_

_Getting this sent with the officer's mail so hopefully it gets past the censors._

_These Krauts fight pretty damn hard. I've taken down four of em already - that's the most in the whole squad! Their Messerschmitts ain't no match for our Mustangs!_

_Our song came on the radio this morning. I was singing along until the guys in the squad started throwing empty cans at me for no reason. I guess they're just jealous that I've bagged more Krauts than any of em._

_I still miss England. Oh, and in case you're confused, when I say England I mean you._

_Love, Alfred._

_._

_Monday 28 February, 1944_

_Dear Arthur,_

_I found out today that the Krauts have a name for me. They call me - you're gonna love this one - the Magician. Because I appear and disappear like magic. Great, isn't it! Lady Beth and I are the terror of the skies! Matt is really jealous, even though he says he isn't. I always said I was the hero of the squad!_

_I keep your handkerchief close to my heart every day. But I can't say too much. Even though this is sent with the officer's mail there is still a chance it'll be seen by the censors._

_Love, Alfred._

_P.S. Just to prove I really am a Magician, I'm going to do something AMAZING - add an extra day to the month! That's right! Just you wait, I'm gonna make February twenty-nine days long this year!_

.

_Tuesday 29 February, 1944_

_Dear Arthur,_

_Abracadabra! 29th of February, told you I'd do it!_

_Love, Alfred._

_._

_Thursday 9 March, 1944_

_Dear Arthur,_

_Things aren't going as well as planned, but we've been told to expect that. Matt and I are fine but some of the squad… well…_

_I have to be careful of the censors._

_The higher ups tell us that things will get better once reinforcements arrive. Guess we just have to hold out 'til then._

_On a brighter note, bagged me another Kraut today, which makes me officially a fighter ace. They say I might get a medal. Funny… I thought I would be happier about that._

_But if I fight and defeat them here, that means they won't get to England. That's what I think about every time I go up._

_Love, Alfred._

.

_Wednesday 15 March, 1944_

_Dear Arthur,_

_Two of my squad were captured yesterday. No sign of those reinforcements we were promised. We've been told we might be moving out soon but no word on when._

_Knowing that you are safe and waiting for me gets me through each mission. Right now it's the only thing that does._

_Love, Alfred._

_._

_Sunday 19 March, 1944_

_Dear Arthur,_

_Well, we were told we'd be heading to France but no sign of that… just stuck here day after day going nowhere. The countryside would be pretty if it weren't for the burnt out tanks and flattened barns everywhere. And the villagers are friendly enough but they seem so damn scared... and I don't blame em. And the assaults keep coming, and we go up and do our job, but it don't seem to do nothing._

_Getting sick and tired of this place. God knows how long we'll be here._

_Lost three more of my squad this morning. Three in one morning… Damn sick and tired._

_There's nothing I wouldn't do right now to hold you for just one minute. I want it so much it hurts. Damn the censors, I don't give a damn anymore. If you're getting these letters it means they got through. I pray you're getting these letters._

_All my love, Alfred._

.

_Thursday 23 March 1944_

_Dear Arthur,_

_It's funny. I've shot down more of the enemy than anyone out here and yet… it doesn't feel like I thought it would._

_We bagged this German pilot today. Flew like an eagle, all power and strength and grace, you know. Took a pack of us to bring him down and he still survived. He told us his name - Ludwig something or other - his rank and his number, and that was it. We bring him into the base and one of the guys takes the German's wallet. He pulls out this photograph and starts laughing, showing it to all the guys… and the German just stares at them with this look that is both the most terrifying and the saddest thing I ever saw. I didn't think it was right, so I take it off the guy, thinking it's a picture of Ludwig's wife or something. It's not. It's this young guy, smiling this bright laughing smile, this young guy with dark eyes and dark hair that sticks up in this one wild curl. And he don't look like no relation to this blond haired blue eyed German. It's strange. I didn't think that I would have anything in common with the Krauts. Seems I was wrong._

_The special forces arrived soon after and took the German away. Before they left I put the photograph in his pocket when no one was looking. He didn't say nothing, but I ain't never seen someone look so grateful. And I thought how strange it was… that it was people like this that I'm shooting down. Just ordinary people with dreams and hopes and photographs._

_There were two words written on the back of the picture… "Bella Ciao." It means "Goodbye, Beautiful."_

_Love always, Alfred._

.

Arthur held the latest letter to his chest and let out a deep, yearning sigh. He had already read it eight times. He was not sure whether the letters helped or made things worse. Of course he devoured every word, but being left with no way to respond was almost unbearable. Each sentence stabbed at his heart. With every letter Alfred seemed to lose a little more of that naivety and wide eyed optimism that had made him so endearing and so exasperating at the same time. But it seemed the reality that had been thrust upon Alfred had also made him more open, more understanding. While sometimes painful, each letter also left Arthur a little more in love than he had been before.

It had been hard to get back to normal life after Alfred had gone. Arthur was completely unprepared for how much he would miss the bloody Yank. After the life and joy and, well, sheer bloody frustration that Alfred had brought into his life, the days without him now felt flat and empty.

Arthur waited anxiously every day to see if a letter would be delivered. The postman was slowly getting used to being practically accosted when he came to the door. And Arthur was almost obsessed with reading every newspaper he could get his hands on, talking to every returning soldier, listening to radio broadcasts day and night, desperate for any news he could possibly get on the war in Europe. Gathering information on the war had become his life, to the extent that he wondered what he ever had to do with himself before Alfred had appeared and turned everything upside down.

Arthur took one last look at the letter, folded it, and placed it carefully in a locked drawer behind the counter. He looked around to see if he was needed, but the evening was fairly slow. The evenings generally were these days, now that the Americans had disappeared. Only a few regulars remained in the pub, clustering around the far end of the bar and making small talk about the war. A few months earlier Arthur would have been bored stiff with the conversation. Now, he hung on every word.

"They say the landings in Italy went appallingly," said one of the men, a gentleman in a suit who tapped his pipe against the bar and sent ash flying everywhere. Arthur barely noticed, too focused on the man's words.

"Of course the Americans would make an awful great mess of it," agreed an elderly regular, who looked disapprovingly at the pipe ash settling on the bar.

"I heard the Germans were tipped off somehow," added another patron, tapping his glass to be heard. "Seems someone was in on it."

"Well _I_ hear the Germans are about ready to pull out of there. Just about had enough," said Arthur. Well, an English soldier had mentioned something to him along those lines earlier in the week. Arthur wasn't sure how reliable the information was, but he wanted to believe it.

"Smartest thing they've done in the whole bloody war, I say," said the regular. "Although certain sources of information would have us believe otherwise."

"Oh! That reminds me." Arthur reached for the wireless and fiddled with the dial. He smiled wryly to himself, remembering how only several weeks ago he had told Alfred that he couldn't stand the radio. Now he was practically glued to the thing. He scrolled through the endless static until he found what he was looking for.

_"Germany calling, Germany calling…"_

The grating voice was met by a chorus of groans. "Why are you listening to that traitor, Arthur?" asked the pipe smoking gentleman.

"At least we get some information from him," said the elderly patron.

"Bah! All lies, you all know that. He'll be hanged, that Lord Haw Haw, you wait and see."

"And good riddance to him! Doesn't mean we can't hear what he has to say right now."

Arthur ignored the men. He listened to Lord Haw Haw's every radio broadcast. As difficult as it was to listen to the traitor's posh, smarmy voice night after night telling the English nation they were fighting a losing battle, talking about the superiority of the German nation and spinning obvious lies about the war, occasional truths got through and Lord Haw Haw's broadcast was one of the only places to get information on the fate of Allied troops.

A heated debate quickly sprung up among the pub patrons, but Arthur was too busy trying to hear the radio to get involved. Most of the time the broadcast held nothing of interest, but over the din Arthur managed to hear a few words which caught his attention. _Italy… American… pilot… _"Ssh," said Arthur, holding up his hand. "What's that he's saying?" He turned up the radio and the men fell quiet as Haw Haw's jarring voice filled the room.

_"The New York Times reported today that an American fighter ace over Italy has shot down nine German planes single-handedly in the midst of an ambush. This is, of course, an absurdity. The pilot, whose name was not released but who is referred to as 'The Magician,' was unable to take down a single Messerschmitt before his plane, a P-51 Mustang named the 'Lady Beth,' was shot down over the Italo-Austrian border…"_

Arthur ceased to hear anything. The radio faded to a distant hum as black waves pounded through his head. The phrase repeated in his head over and over… _a P-51 Mustang named the 'Lady Beth' was shot down… _Arthur looked around for a chair but, not finding one, sank to the ground. Alfred's plane shot down over enemy territory… Alfred's plane… _Alfred_…

Arthur couldn't breathe. This wasn't real. He had imagined it… surely he had imagined it… The distant hum snapped back into focus and that awful voice droned on above him, cutting into him, slicing his heart and his sanity into pieces. The cruel words refused to stop.

_"The pilot was captured barely alive by German forces soon after being shot down. He is believed to be a valuable officer in the American Army Air Force and thus in possession of a vast amount of important information. He has been taken into official custody by the SS and will be questioned extensively before he…"_

The radio faded into pounding black waves once again. _SS… questioned extensively… before he... oh God before he what… _"I can't breathe…"

Unrecognisable voices thrummed through the thick air around him.

"Get some water."

"Someone call a doctor!"

The room tilted dangerously. Arthur didn't even notice he was screaming until someone appeared before him, taking his hands and trying to calm him. Arthur couldn't hear anything clearly but those terrible words. _Lady Beth…_ _shot down… barely alive... questioned extensively… SS…_

Arthur tried to nod. He tried to say he was all right. But he wasn't. Of course he wasn't. Alfred was captured and soon to be interrogated. And after that… the SS weren't exactly known for letting prisoners go free. Arthur swallowed a wave of nausea and fought to stay conscious. He barely noticed the people around him.

Of course Arthur wasn't all right. How could anything ever be all right now?

* * *

_* Lord Haw Haw was the pseudonym of William Joyce, an announcer on 'Germany Calling,' an English language propaganda programme broadcast by Nazi German radio to audiences in Great Britain. The purpose of such broadcasts was to discourage and demoralise Allied troops and the British population. They typically reported on the shooting down of Allied aircraft and the sinking of Allied ships, presenting reports of high losses and casualties amongst Allied troops. Although known to be Nazi propaganda and containing infuriating content as well as frequent inaccuracies and exaggerations, the broadcasts were still frequently listened to for information about the fate of Allied troops and air crews._

_William Joyce was found guilty of treason in 1945 and hanged in 1946._


	6. Chapter 6

_Sunday 26 March 1944_

_My Dearest Arthur,_

_Bonjourno! (That's Italian for hello, you know.) This letter is being sent courtesy of the Italian resistance. The world really does work in weird and wonderful ways sometimes._

_Not a day after I sent my last letter to you, Matthew and I met this friendly group of Italians while visiting the local village. There we were, chatting away, when I noticed that one of them looked really familiar… it took me a moment to realise where I had seen him before. The German's photo! He was the young man with the dark eyes and the wild hair! I pulled him aside and asked if he knew a German fighter pilot named Ludwig. Oh, Arthur. The look of shock, then joy, then utter despair. He obviously knew him… and obviously knew what it meant that I knew of him as well._

_His name is Feliciano, he is a part of the Italian resistance, and he speaks English really well… unlike his brother Lovino who tends to just yell at us in Italian real loud and angry like. Their grandfather (who is known as Rome) leads the movement and they are very skilled at moving Allied prisoners of war to Spain where they can then make their way home. Feliciano does not seem to be as fervent about the cause as his grandfather or his brother, but he is cheerful and sweet and seems just a little scared. When we first met him he jumped out in front of us frantically waving a small white flag and yelling "I surrender" in four different languages._

_Feliciano met Ludwig while the Germans were stationed near his village and fell immediately in love. He didn't care about sides or allegiances… he just met him and loved him. And it was mutual. Feliciano is so helpful to us but he knows at the same time that I helped shoot down Ludwig and imprison him… and yet Feliciano was fighting against the Germans the whole time. It seems there are no sides when it comes to love._

_The village here really is very beautiful. One day, when all of this is over, we'll come back here and see it together… without the tanks and the flattened buildings and the burning fields._

_I miss you so much. I spend every day thinking about how much I can't wait to get back to you. You're the one, Arthur - the one I want to spend every day of my life with. And the longer I'm here the stronger the conviction grows. I love you. It feels so good just to be able to write the words!_

_Things might not be going perfectly, but I'll make sure I come back to you, Arthur. I'm the Magician, after all!_

_Love always, Alfred._

.

Arthur ran his hand gingerly over the letter, folded it, and placed it carefully in his top dresser drawer beside all the others. It was the last letter he had received from Alfred, arriving the morning after the heartbreaking news. The letter was dated a few days before that awful news broadcast. Alfred must have written it only hours before he was captured.

For days Arthur had tried to stop the evil thoughts which assaulted his mind; but he found it impossible. What had the SS done to Alfred? Did he talk? Did he scream? Was he scared? Or did he laugh defiantly and play the hero that he always thought he was? Arthur tried desperately to shake the fears from his head. But God, why Alfred? Why the most honest, cheerful, wonderful person he'd ever known; why the one person in the world who least deserved it?

Once again, Arthur pulled himself together and headed downstairs to work. He plastered on a smile as he walked into the pub and one of his regulars nodded to him as he passed. "How are you holding up there, old chap?"

Arthur waved a hand. "I'm fine, the doctor says it was just exhaustion."

"Ah, you work yourself too hard! Slow down or you'll make yourself ill like last time!"

Arthur laughed and nodded. He'd managed to pass off his reaction to the radio broadcast as a fainting fit brought on by overwork. Nothing more. Everyone had accepted it, and life went on.

Arthur glanced around the pub as he reached the bar. There weren't so many American soldiers around these days, much to his relief. Just the sound of an American accent was enough to pull at Arthur's heart so strongly he thought it might break. Every soldier grinning at him and asking for a bourbon tore him in two once again. Every young, green American with those stupid idealistic views and naive ideas brought back memories of Alfred and shattered the hours Arthur had spent trying to forget. But it was quiet today, and he was grateful.

Arthur got through the rest of the day the way he always did. And every day after that. And through each one, Arthur tried not to think, not to remember, not to feel. Life went on and Arthur tried to go on with it. Hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month. Everything blurred together, one day into the next. He maintained his composure and carried on the same as he always had before. He smiled at the customers. He poured the drinks. He wiped the tables. He did his job.

But everything seemed grey somehow. Arthur hadn't realised how dull life had been before Alfred. Alfred was life: vibrant and real. Though he had only been in Arthur's life a few short weeks, he had quickly become the greatest thing in it. He was sunshine and reality and beauty. And he was gone. So life went on. Dull, and grey, and empty. And though every day Arthur tried his hardest to forget, every night he pulled out that last letter and read those final paragraphs over and over, the ones he had memorised word for word.

_"I miss you so much. I spend every day thinking about how much I can't wait to get back to you. You're the one, Arthur - the one I want to spend every day of my life with. And the longer I'm here the stronger the conviction grows. I love you. It feels so good just to be able to write the words!_

… _I'll make sure I'll come back to you, Arthur."_

_._

_Autumn, 1944  
London, England_

Another evening ended the way it always did, with Arthur not quite knowing where the time had gone or what he had done with it. He busied himself cleaning and when he reached the table by the second front window, Alfred's table, he tried to wipe it down as fast as possible. After all these months, strong memory still hit him, of Alfred sitting there grinning and winking and raising his bourbon glass for another refill. Arthur tried to shake the memory away. He glanced up at the sound of the front door opening.

A jolt of shock shot through him so strongly it was almost painful. Alfred walked into the pub. Arthur's heart hammered against his chest and he clutched tightly onto the cloth in his hand. His head swam in a sudden wave of unreality. Alfred smiled sadly at him, but there was something wrong. His hair was too long. His eyes were too dark. He had a polar bear attached to his lapel. Arthur's stomach sank to his feet. He went back to wiping the table and fell back into the manner he had accustomed over the last months. Calm. Composed. Emotionless.

"Hello, Matthew."

"Hi, Arthur. How are you?"

"Bloody marvellous. How are you?"

Matthew shrugged. "About the same."

"Oh good." Arthur felt small stab of guilt for his cold welcome, but an irrational wave of anger suppressed it. Why did Alfred's friend and wingman have to come back here? Why was he here to remind Arthur, when all Arthur wanted was to forget?

"Are you just closing?" asked Matthew as he walked to the bar and looked around.

"Yes," said Arthur as he walked back to the bar and threw the cloth down onto the counter. Looking around, he realised that the pub was empty and he hadn't even noticed. He reached for the bottle of rum and poured two glasses, passing one to Matthew and swiftly downing the other. He poured himself another.

Matthew nodded in thanks as he took the glass. "I suppose you… I mean, it's been so long, you must have heard…"

"Yes," said Arthur, saving himself the pain and Matthew the unease of trying to complete that sentence.

"Oh." Matthew took a long sip of rum. "How? If you don't mind my…"

"Radio," interrupted Arthur. "One of our friend Haw Haw's informative broadcasts."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Matthew looked genuinely dismayed. "What did you hear?"

Arthur sighed deeply and took a large gulp of his rum. Did he really have to say this out loud… "Shot down. Captured barely alive. Taken by the SS to be…" Arthur choked out the last word. "…interrogated." The words were engraved in his memory.

Matthew looked down into his glass. "I'm sorry," he said again. "He went down behind enemy lines. We haven't heard anything since, but since it's been so long… there's very little hope."

Arthur nodded. He knew this. What he didn't know was why Matthew was here to voice Arthur's fears and make it so much worse.

And Matthew continued. "It was a trap. He was surrounded. But he was amazing… none of us have ever seen anything like it. He shot down seven of them. That's unheard of. He drew their fire away from the rest of us, and…"

Arthur couldn't stand it. "Is this where you tell me he was a hero who fought and died bravely and I should be very proud? I'm quite aware of that. And it isn't as though I am his widow. Perhaps you should be telling all this to his family."

There was a moment of silence as a spasm of hurt passed across Matthew's face. Arthur looked away, feeling a little guilty. "I'm sorry, Matthew."

"It's all right." Matthew stood in silence for a moment. "You know, he didn't actually have a family. He didn't have anyone. Until you." Arthur couldn't bear the words... why was Matthew still talking... "You were all he talked about. Arthur this, and Arthur that…" Matthew smiled sadly. _"'I'm gonna take Arthur up in Lady Beth one day... I bet Arthur would love this village... when this war is over, I'm gonna show Arthur America...'"_ Matthew almost laughed. "I tell you what, he nearly drove me insane with it." Arthur closed his eyes tightly. "He loved you, Arthur. Please don't ever forget that."

Arthur breathed deeply before finally opening his eyes. "No. I don't think I ever will."

"I'm sorry. I've just caused you pain coming here." Matthew reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Arthur gasped as he saw what it was. Matthew looked almost apologetic as he handed it over. "We found it in the wreckage."

Arthur's hand felt leaden as he reached out and took the handkerchief. He swallowed heavily and, unable to say anything, he just nodded. He looked down at the embroidered handkerchief, the gift he had given Alfred to serve as a good luck talisman. The irony was too cruel.

"And one more thing." Arthur's heart flipped as Matthew handed him a battered envelope. "He wrote this the morning before… well, you know. He never got to send it. I'm sorry I waited so long, but I thought I should give it to you personally."

Choked up, Arthur nodded again. Here Matthew was just trying to make him feel better, trying to help, and Arthur was being horrible. Arthur wanted to apologise but he simply could not speak.

"We're heading to France soon. I'll come and say goodbye before we head over." Matthew finished his drink, put down his glass, and headed for the door.

"Matthew," Arthur finally managed to choke out. Matthew turned. "Thank you."

Matthew smiled and nodded, then left.

Arthur looked down at the handkerchief, ran his fingers over it, then held it up to his face. He inhaled deeply, clutching desperately for the slightest touch of Alfred from the small piece of cloth. Had it touched Alfred's skin? His lips? Had Alfred been holding it when his plane crashed down? Arthur quickly held back the dark thoughts and ripped open the letter.

.

_My Dearest Arthur,_

_I have done something. It may have been incredibly stupid. It may have been treason._

_I don't know if it was wrong. It didn't feel wrong… but now I don't know what may happen to me. All I know is that I don't regret it._

_Arthur… whether I come back to you or not… I will love you forever._

_My love always, Alfred._

.

Arthur stared at the page, completely unsure what to make of the words. He read them what felt like a hundred times. Eventually he did the only thing he could really do. He poured a glass of bourbon, drank it, then poured another. Bourbon was Alfred's drink. It felt appropriate.

Arthur walked slowly to the mantelpiece and carefully placed the full glass on its surface. Memories started to flood his mind unbidden. The first time this fresh faced American pilot stood at his bar, grinning widely and asking for a glass of bourbon… _Bourbon, straight over ice… you Brits have bourbon over here, right? _The first time he introduced himself… _Alfred F. Jones, American hero, here to save England!_ The first time of many he asked Arthur to have a drink with him… _I've never drunk with an Englishman before!_ That fateful time he finally succeeded… _Arthur, buddy, how about you come have that drink you promised?_ And of course the night Alfred tried desperately to grasp a glass of scotch off a customer at this very mantelpiece, terrified of the story of the ghost of the Emerald Lion.

Arthur laughed as he looked at the single glass of bourbon sitting on the mantelpiece. Alfred always was so fanatical, so passionate, so boisterous in everything he did. Arthur shook his head as the smile fell from his face. "Alfred, you bastard… you promised you'd come back."

It took only a few seconds for Arthur's composure to fall to pieces. All his carefully constructed, calm self-control fell apart, and his despair overwhelmed him for the first time since those moments he heard the heartbreaking news on the radio. He couldn't stay in this room. The memories were too overwhelming. The bedroom would be even worse. With nowhere else to go, finally Arthur fled down the stairs to the cellar, and headed straight for the rows of bourbon. Taking a bottle from the shelf, he looked down at it for a brief moment, then in a sudden fit of impulse he hurled it as hard as he could at the stone wall. He wanted to shatter the memories, shatter the pain. He watched as the bottle smashed into a million brilliant glass pieces. Just like his heart.

And then Arthur finally let it all come out. Grasping two more bottles from the shelf, he didn't pause to think before smashing them both against the wall, one after the other. Why did this bloody war have to happen? Why did he have to meet someone so amazing only to have him snatched away? Why did he have to find such happiness only to lose it and then know forever what he was living without? Why were there no bloody answers to any of these questions?

Arthur screamed, he yelled, he cried. He wanted this feeling gone. He wanted Alfred back. He wanted it so badly it hurt. He didn't notice as a shard of glass flew back and sliced his cheek. He simply grabbed more bottles and smashed them as hard as he could. Turning to grab another bottle, he finally fell to the ground, pulled off the lid and drank. It took only seconds to down a bottle of bourbon and reach for more. He didn't stop. When one was empty, he reached for another.

Perhaps an hour passed. Perhaps a day. Perhaps more. People may have been speaking to him, but Arthur ignored them. He simply grasped for more bourbon. The dark turned to light, then back to darkness. Arthur reached for more of the liquid void. Blackness. Blessed oblivion.

Arthur was dreaming. The soft melody of _'We'll Meet Again' _wafted through the air. Alfred was there… grinning, winking, laughing, smiling. _"I'm gonna show you it all, Arthur!" "You'll love it you really will!" "I like that… when you smile…"_

The air was thick and the cellar floor hard and cold beneath him. Arthur finally opened his eyes… and there he was, right in front of him. That golden hair, that golden skin, those bright, blue eyes. Arthur looked up into Alfred's beautiful face and smiled. "I knew you'd come back to me."

And then oblivion took over once more.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur very slowly came to the realisation that the surface beneath him was no longer hard and cold, but soft and warm. The world was no longer pitch dark and the room seemed bright on the other side of his eyelids. He finally opened them and quickly realised he was lying in his bed. And that he felt extremely, awfully sick. Turning his head he saw a glass of water on the bedside table and grasped for it greedily. He swiftly finished the whole thing before falling back into the soft nest of pillows.

He could barely remember anything. He had started drinking… Why? Oh. Alfred. He had wanted to get rid of the pain. Well, it seemed to have worked for a while… but now it was flooding him again, and with it came the additional pain of his stomach turning itself in knots and his brain pounding against his skull. Arthur shut his eyes and tried determinedly to fall back asleep. It did not take long.

When Arthur opened his eyes again, the light was not so bright, and his head was not quite so close to exploding. He managed to drag himself to his dresser mirror, but blinked in surprise at the person who stared back at him. He could not remember the last time he had looked in a mirror. His eyes were dark, sunken. His hair was a matted mess. His lips were flakily dry and a large red cut ran across his cheek. He raised a hand hesitantly to his unshaven face, noticing more small cuts beneath the stubble. In short, he looked terrible.

Fragments of images flashed through his memory: glass smashing against a wall, bottles falling empty beside him, the stone floor of the cellar rising up to meet him… Arthur closed his eyes against his reflection, against the memories, and forced himself to get dressed.

Despite his pounding head, Arthur managed to make it downstairs. The first thing he noticed was an empty glass of bourbon on the mantelpiece. But he had left it full… Arthur's stomach flipped. Noticing a note under the glass, he quickly hurried over and grabbed it.

_Alfred would not want this._  
_Matthew._

Matthew. Of course. The last thing he'd seen in that cellar wasn't Alfred's face at all; but apparently it hadn't been a dream, either.

Arthur felt a wave of anger overwhelm him. He glared angrily at the note before ripping it to pieces and throwing it into the fireplace. How _dare_ Matthew? How the hell did he know what Alfred wanted? Alfred was dead. As soon as he thought it, Arthur's knees nearly buckled beneath him. Dead. Dead. Alfred was dead.

"Of course he's bloody dead," Arthur whispered to himself. He knew that. So why was it like a punch to the stomach to finally think the words? Arthur breathed deeply, picked up the glass, and took it over to the sink. Back to work. What else could he do?

.

A week passed in the empty, grey, lifeless existence Arthur had quickly become accustomed to. He was waiting for it to get easier at some point, but at the same time expecting it not to, and somehow also hoping that it wouldn't. As the daily life of the pub went on around him, Arthur remained unmoving and lost in the centre of it. Business had once again slowed down, and today Arthur was left with little to do besides stand behind the bar polishing every glass one by one. It was the kind of mind-numbing task he almost enjoyed doing these days.

"How are you feeling?"

Arthur looked up from polishing the forty-eighth glass to see Matthew standing at the bar, in full dress uniform with his cap in hand. And of course, his polar bear attached to his lapel. Arthur suddenly wondered how he could have ever mistaken him... or anyone... for Alfred. "Better."

"Good. I was worried."

Arthur shrugged. "Why ever should you be worried?"

Matthew fixed him with a slightly disbelieving stare. "You were in that cellar for over a day."

"I was?" Arthur said it flatly.

Matthew fidgeted with his hat. He looked tired and drained. "That night, I came to see how you were doing, and the pub was closed…"

"If it was closed, how did you get in?" Arthur interrupted.

Matthew almost smiled. "You need to start remembering to lock your doors."

"Oh."

A silence fell, then Matthew took a long, steadying breath. "What were you doing, Arthur?" His eyes seemed to burn into Arthur's, almost scary in their perceptiveness. "I walked in and you were lying in a pool of broken glass and bourbon. There must have been six empty bottles next to you, not counting the broken ones."

Arthur shrugged again, expressionless. "I was thirsty."

Matthew's expression was unreadable, but seemed tinged with sadness. "Arthur, you could have killed your..."

Arthur quickly interrupted him. "Forgive me, though I know it was unforgivable to cause you such trouble. Please, accept my apologies."

Matthew smiled kindly and shook his head. "You do not need to apologise, Arthur."

"Nevertheless." Arthur did feel awful for being such a nuisance to Matthew. He was also incredibly embarrassed, and rather uncomfortable. As if he didn't have enough to feel awful about. He just wished he had been left to crawl out of that cellar himself - or simply left there for good. Perhaps that might have been best.

Matthew paused, seemingly at a loss for words. "We are leaving for France. In fact I am already late. I told you I would come say goodbye, so…" Matthew spread his hands.

As he looked across at the kind, young Canadian, Arthur felt another crushing wave of sadness. He liked Matthew. He could imagine being friends with him - in another life. Arthur swallowed heavily. He didn't expect Matthew to come back. "Matthew. I'm afraid I never was terribly good with goodbyes."

Matthew just nodded. "I thought as much. And I understand. I just wanted to… make sure you would be all right. You will be, won't you?"

Of course not. "Yes, of course."

"Good… Good." Matthew held his hand out over the bar. "Goodbye, Arthur."

Arthur took Matthew's hand in a warm handshake. "Goodbye, Matthew. Good luck."

Matthew gripped his hand tightly, his eyes kind but stern. "And don't do that again."

Arthur nodded. When his hand was released, he turned his back and closed his eyes. Would he ever stop feeling like this? Like the world kept ending around him? Even when he tried to help, all Matthew did was unwittingly cause him pain; and now by leaving he was causing more. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But there it was. Behind him he heard Matthew walk to the door. "Matthew."

Silence.

"Please… please be careful."

"You too, Arthur."

Arthur kept his eyes closed and waited for the sound of the door shutting. Instead he heard an unfamiliar voice behind him.

"Well, _bonjour Monsieur!_"

Matthew responded uncertainly. "Uh, _bonjour."_

"Forgive me, you seem very familiar… we have not met before?"

"I do not think so."

"Then please, we must meet now. Let me buy you a drink… for you are the loveliest thing I have seen since I arrived in England!"

"I… uh..." Matthew coughed softly. "_Pardon, mais pas maintenant. Peut-être une autre fois."_

"Ah, and he speaks French! Be still my heart!"

Matthew gave a tiny, uncomfortable laugh. "_Monsieur_, we are not in Paris. You may wish to be more careful with your words here. Not all would take kindly to them, and I am sure the last thing you would wish is a jail sentence in England."

The voice scoffed lightly. "Please, my dear, I can tell a likeminded soul from a street away. So come, drink with me, you must not leave!"

Matthew sounded a little thrown. "As luck would have it, _Monsieur_, I am just now on my way to France."

"Ah, how cruel the fates can be… for that is where my heart desires to go yet I cannot, and though I wish for you to stay you are leaving in my place! Perhaps one day, if we are lucky, we shall meet again."

Matthew laughed dismissively. "We shall see. _Au revoir, Monsieur._"

Arthur turned once he heard the door finally shut. He almost groaned when the Frenchman approached the bar. Bloody marvellous. First he had to deal with the Yanks, now he had to deal with the Frogs. The man was dressed in a French officer's uniform. His blond hair fell to his shoulders - rather long for a military cut – a light down of stubble covered his chin, and his right arm was bandaged from armpit to wrist. "Ah, how quaint. A little English pub." His voice was heavily accented.

"How can I help?" asked Arthur sullenly.

The Frenchman leant on the bar and smiled brightly. "Yes, please bring me a bottle of your best red wine. French, if you have it. Not to be rude, but your English wine is, how would you say it… disgusting."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. He retrieved a bottle of wine from a glass cabinet behind him and slammed it down in front of the Frenchman. "Merlot. Best we've got. Incredibly old, perfectly cellared, simply one of the best wines in the country. One hundred pounds. Oh, and it's English."

The Frenchman wrinkled his nose. "Perhaps I will just have a glass of brandy."

Arthur shrugged. "Suit yourself." He replaced the wine and reached for a brandy bottle instead.

The Frenchman took a seat at a barstool, carefully leaning his bandaged arm on the bar. "So, what is this little pub of yours called, Englishman?"

Arthur gritted his teeth. Arrogant Frog. "The Emerald Lion."

The Frenchman furrowed his brows and tapped his chin. "_Le lion vert_. Hmm. The name is familiar for some reason." He nodded as Arthur placed a glass of brandy before him. "_Merci, mon ami."_

"My name is Arthur. And kindly refrain from calling me your _ami._" Arthur was hit by a sudden memory… "_And kindly refrain from calling me your buddy." "All right, sorry Art. Thur." _Just like that, the sudden despair of remembrance engulfed him once again.

"Very well." A smile played at the Frenchman's lips as he gazed at Arthur with intense blue eyes. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Arthur. My name is Francis. Won't you join me in a drink?"

Arthur rolled his eyes in annoyance. "No, thank you. I'm working."

Francis shrugged. "_Santé._" He held his drink up in a toast. Arthur noticed that two of his fingers were missing and felt a sudden stab of guilt. After all, Francis had fought for the same thing as Alfred. Whatever that meant these days.

"What do you think of the brandy?" Arthur decided it would only be polite to attempt sociability.

"This is the first drink I've had in two months." Francis took a deep sip, his expression pleasantly surprised. "And I must say, it is excellent."

"It's English," said Arthur with a tiny smile.

Francis smirked lightly. "Well, I suppose everyone gets it right once in a while." He took another sip and glanced around the pub curiously. "This certainly does bring back memories. It has been years since I have been in an English pub."

"This is not your first time in England?"

"Oh, no. I used to visit regularly, actually, with two friends of mine. We were even thinking of studying at university here, before the war. In fact…" Francis smiled wistfully, his eyes suddenly glazed and faraway. "London was the very first place we travelled together." Then he blinked it away. "But that was a lifetime ago." Francis finished his glass with a flourish. "I must apologise. I do not normally drink so fast."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry… you should see the Americans we get in here." Arthur laughed under his breath as he refilled the glass.

"Ah, the Americans." Francis nodded knowingly. "The young gentleman who passed me at the door earlier… do you know him? He is not an American?"

"Yes, I know him. And he's Canadian."

"Of course - the polar bear. Ah, what terrible timing; what a twist of fate." Francis raised his eyes and sighed melodramatically. "What a tragedy."

Arthur suppressed a laugh. It was the most he had smiled in weeks. "So Francis, whatever brings you to England this time around?" Arthur picked up where he had left off earlier, polishing glasses. He was actually starting to feel rather grateful to this French soldier for the distraction.

"An English hospital ship, actually."

"Oh. Were you wounded in Europe?"

Francis answered slowly. "I was captured in Italy."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Arthur stared at the bar top. He didn't want to know how Francis had lost those fingers. But his curiosity was overwhelming. He thought of Alfred, captured, and what he had gone through. So much for distraction. "Was it… was it very terrible?"

Francis dropped his gaze to his glass, his eyes suddenly dark and hollow. "You really do not wish to know," he said softly.

"I'm sorry," said Arthur again. He felt rather ill. "But you escaped… did many soldiers manage to escape?" A foolish hope.

"Not from those who captured me." Arthur looked at him inquisitively and Francis clarified, "Gestapo. Let's just say that I was incredibly lucky. I have a... how would you say it... a gift for escaping."

"Oh." Arthur reproached himself for even daring to hope about Alfred under those circumstances.

"If I may ask…" Francis peered intently at Arthur over his brandy glass. "You seem very interested in this. Why?"

Arthur paused, then without knowing why he was telling this strange Frenchman, explained, "I know someone who was captured by the SS."

Francis placed his glass down and sighed. "Ah, _mon Dieu._ I should not have…"

Arthur shook his head. "It's quite all right, I assure you. I did ask, after all."

"This person… he was a relative? A brother?"

"No, he was an American. He was… he was…" Arthur bowed his head, unsure how to finish the sentence. He was inimitable... he was mad... he was everything…

There was a brief moment of silence before Francis spoke softly. "I see. I am sorry."

Arthur shook his head again, blinking rapidly. "This is wartime. What can we do?"

Francis laughed at that, soft and humourlessly. "What indeed."

"Do you know Francis…" Arthur took a deep breath, looked up at the Frenchman, and smiled. "I think I will join you in a drink."

A few brandies later and thankfully the conversation veered away from such painful topics. Arthur knocked back another glass as Francis stared at him wide-eyed.

"You may speak of the Americans, but I have never seen someone drink like you, my friend."

Arthur waved a hand. "I'm used to it. I can hold my liquor." He immediately knocked over the bottle and decided to ignore Francis' laughter. As though the Frog could talk - he was already on his fourth glass. "And it is terribly rude to compare me to a Yank." Arthur and Francis seemed to have found common ground in their mutual exasperation with Americans.

"No class, whatsoever!" said Francis through his laughter. "And such a terrible sense of fashion!"

Arthur nodded in earnest agreement. "And have you ever tried to play baseball? Absolute bollocks! No bloody sense, none at all."

Francis leant forward eagerly. "_Mon ami,_ but you should see the Americans in Paris! They seem to think that the entire world speaks English!"

"English, ha!" scoffed Arthur. "What they speak is _not_ English. And what they _spell_ certainly isn't, either."

Francis laughed loudly. They were quickly drawing stares from other customers in the pub, but Arthur couldn't care less. This was the most lighthearted he had felt in weeks. "And their _food_," continued Francis in a horrified tone. "It is worse than the English!"

Arthur ignored that last jab. "Their chocolate is rather good." He paused, lost in thought for a moment. "And they're so… eager. Energetic. And cheerful, despite everything. Actually… they're really not that bad at all, old chap."

Francis placed his empty glass down on the bar. "_Oui_, I suppose this is true. I have been two weeks in the hospital not far from here, stuck in a bed next to an American… Funny, friendly, but _mon Dieu,_ he could simply not shut up!"

"I know exactly what you mean," said Arthur, remembering Alfred's inability to keep his mouth shut. He hadn't seemed to know how.

Francis waved a hand. "Fighter pilots. They are all the same."

Arthur smiled grimly. "It rather seems like it."

Francis glanced towards the ceiling, his expression fondly amused. "Ah la la, but this pilot was an odd one. When he was not sedated he spent the rest of the time pulling off his bandages, fighting the staff, and trying to escape the place. We had a little bet going to see who could get out first. As I said to him, if I can escape the Germans, I can escape the English." Francis raised his drink again.

Arthur hesitated. "Why was he trying to leave?"

"He kept saying he had to see someone…" Francis trailed off and looked at Arthur curiously. "_Attend_, I am sure this is where I have heard the name of this pub… Ah, these painkillers they have given me, they mess with the mind." Francis narrowed his eyes calculatedly. "What did you say was your name again?"

Arthur clutched his glass so hard he could feel it cracking. "Arthur," he responded in a very small voice. The air seemed to grow heavy around him.

Francis' eyes grew bright and wide. "Of course! Arthur from the Emerald Lion!"

Arthur froze in shock. He didn't dare to think. He didn't dare to breathe. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. "What was his name?" Arthur asked slowly, breathlessly. "This American fighter pilot?"

"Alfred. Lieutenant Alfred Jones."

Arthur dropped the glass. He ignored it shattering at his feet. The world seemed to fall apart and remake itself around him. His heart stopped, leapt in his chest, then thundered rapidly. He stared unseeing, unbelieving, and though he could see Francis' lips moving he could not hear a word. The sudden silence was followed by a deafening crash in his ears. When Arthur could finally move, when he could finally breathe, he managed to speak in a whisper. "Where did you say that hospital was?"


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur had never run so fast in his life. His feet pounded against the hard pavement and he wasn't sure if his head was spinning from the exertion, the alcohol that buzzed through his veins, or the earlier revelation that still had him staggered. But even though sweat ran down his face and his lungs screamed at him for air, he didn't slow until he reached the entrance of the war hospital several blocks away. His mind whirled with confusion and disbelief. His heart pounded so fast he felt it would burst. He couldn't believe it… he wouldn't believe it... it was too incredible, too wonderful. It couldn't be true. But oh, what if it was?

Arthur raced through the hospital entrance and straight past the reception. The strong chemical smell hit him like a fist, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light after running through the sunlit streets. It took all his strength to slow to a respectable speed as he rushed through the endless white hallways.

"Excuse me! Sir! You aren't supposed to be here!" A man in an officer's uniform tried to stop him in the hallway. Arthur simply stepped around him and kept walking.

"Important business, I'm... from the War Office."

The officer turned and looked after him suspiciously. "What is your clearance code?"

Arthur replied without thinking. "B 51 19." He rushed past and, thankfully, the officer didn't press the matter. Arthur did not know where he was going. He had no idea whether to ask someone, or even what he would ask… _Excuse me, is there an incredibly loud, annoying, handsome American around here somewhere?_ Arthur looked frantically in every room he passed, growing increasingly desperate. Why the hell hadn't he asked Francis for more information instead of bolting immediately out the door and into the street?

An enormous crash from a room down the hall suddenly broke the relative silence of the place. A nurse immediately appeared in the doorway and called out loudly. "Will someone bring me another shot for room 105?"

Arthur stopped still, felt the hall spin around him, then headed for the commotion in a dreamlike daze. Another nurse dashed past him and disappeared into the room, leaving the door open. As he drew closer he started to make out the words of the voices that sounded loudly from the room.

"We simply cannot keep injecting him with this sedative," came the voice of a young woman.

"We have no choice, it's becoming more and more difficult to restrain him!" said the nurse who had called out in the doorway.

A male voice spoke next. "Lieutenant, calm down or we will have to inject you again!"

"As I have told you a hundred times!" The shock hit Arthur so intensely his entire body froze. He couldn't move; he almost felt he would faint. He would know that voice anywhere. He'd heard it laughing, heard it sighing, heard it singing… "I will calm down if you let me out of here for just one hour… One damned hour! You don't understand, I _need_ to see someone!"

"You can write this person a letter," said the young woman soothingly.

"They keep confiscating my letters!"

"Please lie down. You are injured!"

"It's just a few bruises..."

Arthur told himself to move; forced himself to follow the voices. Cautious joy swelled in his chest.

The male voice spoke again. "It's internal bleeding and serious burn damage and you are jeopardising your chance of recovery…"

"You can't keep me here against my will. Someone call the American Embassy!"

"Now listen here, Lieutenant Jones." This second male voice was loud and aggressive. "You are going to lie down and you are going to shut up."

"_You_ can just try and make me."

Arthur reached the end of the hall, still feeling like he was walking in a dream. As he turned into the room his breath caught in his lungs. There he was. _Alfred. _Arthur shook his head, felt dizzy, tried to understand. He reached out and grasped the doorframe for support as he tried to take in the sight before him. Three nurses and a doctor stood watching as two guards in military dress tried desperately to restrain Alfred. He was wrapped in bandages and dressed in white hospital clothes with his bomber jacket thrown over his shoulders. He fought angrily to free himself from the grip of the guards… and looked like he was winning. No one noticed Arthur as he stood, stunned, watching the mayhem.

"That's it, I have to leave, and I am done with this!" Alfred turned and threw one of the men to the ground. The other tried desperately to keep a hold on him as the doctor quickly grabbed Alfred's arm, jabbed him with a needle, and immediately jumped back out of the way. Alfred threw the other guard off him before he finally stopped, looked down at his arm, and groaned loudly. "Not again."

Arthur stood immobilised in shock. He finally managed to find his voice. "Alfred." It came out in a whisper, but everyone in the room looked up. Arthur hardly noticed. His eyes were locked on Alfred's.

Alfred stared at Arthur for a moment, then looked back down at his arm where he had been injected. "Huh. That worked faster than usual." Alfred paused, his eyes widened, and he raised his gaze once again, slowly, to meet Arthur's. "I'm not... dreaming, am I?"

Arthur just shook his head. "Alfred," he said again, still in a whisper. He could not think what else to say. He could not think at all. "You're not dead."

"I don't think so..." A fleeting expression of panic crossed Alfred's face and he stared wide-eyed at the doctor. "I ain't dead, am I?"

The doctor rolled his eyes. "Of course you're not bloody dead, Lieutenant, complete miracle though that is."

The military guards had both drawn themselves to their feet, but kept a wary distance from Alfred. One took a few steps toward Arthur. "Sir, I don't know who you are, but you can't be in here."

"He's not going anywhere," growled Alfred fiercely.

The doctor held his hand out to stop the guard. "He's keeping the patient calm. I suggest you let him stay unless you want to deal with the consequences." He nodded towards Alfred. The guard looked like that was the last thing he wanted and stepped back again.

Arthur shook his head, the words going over his head, still unable to believe what was right before him. "But you… your plane… the radio said, it went down, and, and Matthew said you were... and I was certain…" Arthur couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't finish a thought. Alfred was standing in front of him. It suddenly hit Arthur like a hammer. This was real. Without a thought to those around them, Arthur ran across the room and threw his arms around Alfred. He clutched at his shoulders, frantically trying to convince himself this was happening, still scared to accept it. "You're real," he said breathlessly. "You're really real!" He finally allowed himself to believe it and couldn't hold back a relieved, overjoyed laugh.

Arthur buried his face in the collar of Alfred's jacket and inhaled that familiar comforting smell. The feel of Alfred, the smell of Alfred, his simply exhilarating presence… Arthur could not stop tears rising, completely overwhelmed. Arthur smiled with joy as he felt Alfred's arms wrap around him; felt his hand run up his back and tangle in his hair. He shivered as Alfred sighed softly against his ear. Arthur heard someone approach behind him, but then Alfred lifted his head and growled in a threatening voice. "Don't you even think about it."

Arthur barely noticed anyone else in the room. He couldn't care less. All he could see, all he could think, was Alfred. He held him, touched him, breathed him in. "I can't believe you're here! I can't believe you're real!" This was everything Arthur remembered, everything he had dreamed about. This was Alfred. Arthur pulled his arms even tighter and Alfred gasped.

"Yeah, I'm real. I'm also really… uh… in a bit of pain."

Arthur quickly let go. "Oh bollocks, sorry." He tried to step back but Alfred grasped his hands. Arthur looked up into his face. He was still there. Still real. And he was grinning. Arthur shook his head, overwhelmed. "I can't... I don't understand…"

"I'll explain everything. But first…"

Arthur's heart almost stopped. "Yes?"

"First… I just have to pass out for a minute." Alfred squeezed Arthur's hands, winked, then fell to the floor, unconscious, with a smile on his face.

One of the nurses whistled. "That's the longest I've seen anyone stay conscious with that amount of sedative in their veins."

.

Arthur couldn't take his eyes off Alfred. He hadn't left the hospital since he arrived, despite the best efforts of the two military guards who stood watch at the door. Thankfully the doctor refused to let them force Arthur out, pointing out that he had somehow calmed Alfred down, and no one wanted to see how Alfred would react if he woke up and found him no longer there. So Arthur sat beside Alfred's bed, clasping his hand, watching as he lay sleeping. Alfred had deep purple bruises around his eyes. Bandages seemed to cover almost his entire body. The hand that Arthur clutched almost desperately was missing a finger; the hand that lay resting on the bed was missing two. His remaining fingers were devoid of nails. Arthur felt sick, angry, devastated. Yet at the same time he felt relieved and ecstatic, because no matter what had happened to him, Alfred was alive. He was alive, he was real, and by some miracle he was lying here in London, sleeping beside Arthur and holding his hand.

The room was rather small and clinical. It contained two beds, some chairs, and not much else. The bed beside Alfred's was empty; Arthur supposed that must have been Francis' before he escaped. The door swung open and Arthur looked up as the young nurse from earlier walked in, smiling down at him. Well, that was a nice change. The military men at the door kept throwing him dirty looks and muttering under their breath. The nurse placed some vials and packages on the bedside table, scribbled a few things on a clipboard beside the bed, then reached down and took Alfred's hand. Arthur watched as she gently turned it around and felt his wrist for a pulse. His stomach fell, once again, when he looked at Alfred's butchered hand.

"What happened to him?" asked Arthur in a small voice.

The nurse glanced up and smiled kindly. "From what we can gather, he was held prisoner for nearly a month. They seemed to think he had some sort of information, and they tried rather hard to get it."

Arthur cringed, a hot wave of anger running through him. "How did he escape?"

The nurse released Alfred's hand and again wrote something on the clipboard. "Well, that _is_ the question. He was delivered to an American base by a group of Italians, but… we've no idea how he managed to get free of the SS. He won't tell anyone. Until he does, the military want to keep a very close eye on him." She nodded toward the guards standing at the door.

"He feels hot…"

"Yes. He's fighting a fever. He's not in very good shape at all, I'm afraid, but compared to how he was… well, let's just say it's utterly incredible how he managed to fight so hard to try and leave. He wouldn't be conscious a minute before he was up and charging to be let out the door. He certainly must have had something important to do."

Arthur smiled. Something important. Foolish, marvellous Alfred. "I suppose so."

"But I'm supposing that with you here he may finally be able to get some rest." The nurse winked at Arthur as she left the room. Arthur blinked a few times after her in surprise. He laughed a little to himself, looked down at Alfred, and felt his heart jump to his throat when he noticed Alfred's eyelids fluttering. Arthur held his breath as Alfred slowly opened his eyes, blinked a few times, then looked straight up at Arthur. His face lit up in a blinding grin.

"I'm really not dreaming?"

Arthur shook his head and smiled back. "Not unless I am."

Alfred smiled happily. "Hey, Arthur. If we're dreaming… let's not wake up."

Arthur nodded, his throat choked up. He lifted Alfred's hand to his lips and kissed it. "All right."

"I think…" Alfred's eyes started to drift close. "I think I need to sleep some more."

"That's all right, Alfred. Go to sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

Alfred's eyes closed, a smile still on his lips. He sighed quietly. "My… Arthur…"

Arthur did nothing more for the rest of the afternoon than sit holding Alfred's hand and watching him sleep. It was one of the best afternoons of his life.

It seemed like hours later that Arthur blearily opened his eyes to find that the lights had been lit. He must have fallen asleep sometime in the early evening. He blinked in confusion, unsure where he was, until with a sudden rush of joy it all came flooding back. Arthur rubbed his eyes with his free hand, looked down at Alfred, and found him smiling up at him. Arthur smiled back. He had never felt so happy, so content, so unbelievably thankful in his entire life. The weeks of despair already seemed a distant memory. For months he had felt as though a part of him had been ripped out, and now he felt whole again. They both gazed quietly at each other for what could have been a minute... could have been days. Arthur never wanted to move.

"What happened to your face?" Alfred asked finally, trying to reach up and touch Arthur's cheek. His hand fell back heavily on the bed.

"It's nothing," said Arthur quickly. He shrugged. "Broke a glass."

"You all right?" Alfred furrowed his brows in concern.

Arthur laughed in disbelief. "You're asking _me_ that? Good God, Alfred, it's just a scratch. I'm slightly more concerned about you right now."

Alfred grinned. "Don't you worry about me. I'm just fine."

Arthur frowned. His bruised eyes; his bandaged head. He didn't look fine. "I missed you, Alfred." Arthur swallowed heavily and looked away. "You can't possibly..."

Alfred ran his thumb in circles over Arthur's palm. "I'm sorry, Arthur. They wouldn't let me out of here, and they kept throwing my letters away. It was so hard… knowing you were just down the road and I couldn't reach you." Alfred's expression twisted in pain. "It nearly killed me."

"I wish I'd known. I thought..." Arthur took a ragged breath, the awful memories flooding him. "I really thought you were dead."

Alfred squeezed his hand. "I promised I'd come back to you, didn't I? Didn't you believe me?" Arthur laughed and Alfred smiled. "How did you find me?"

"This French man came into the pub, and he..."

"Francis?" Alfred interrupted. "Damn it, that frog escaped and won the bet! I wondered why his bed was empty. Obviously his strategy was a little more effective than mine."

"His strategy?"

Alfred winked. "Seducing the nurses."

"Oh." Arthur wondered how Francis had escaped the Germans. He decided not to think about it. "So you… didn't try that one?"

"You think I could seduce anyone looking like this?" Alfred grinned widely, his hair sticking out of his bandage and falling in his eyes.

Arthur's heart thumped a little faster. "Well, frankly, yes." Alfred scoffed and Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Gentlemen never lie, remember?"

Alfred looked away. "Stop. I know I don't look the best right now."

"You look magnificent." Alfred looked back, eyebrows raised, and Arthur's cheeks burned as he dropped his gaze to the bed. He laughed nervously. "So… your strategy was what... to beat down every military guard in the place?"

"Pretty much. I'd have been out of here days ago, too, if it wasn't for that damned sleeping needle they keep sticking in me."

"Sedative. Why on earth did you keep fighting them then?"

"Because I had to get to you." Alfred said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Arthur burned with both joy and dismay that Alfred would trouble himself so much for him. Embarrassed, thrilled, overjoyed; he searched for a way to change the conversation. "Matthew doesn't know you're here?"

"No." Alfred glared at the two military guards still standing outside the door. "I haven't been able to speak to anyone. But you can tell him for me, right?"

Arthur shook his head apologetically. "He just left for France."

Alfred groaned and closed his eyes. "Damn. I should be going too."

"No, you shouldn't."

Alfred shook his head. "Not like I can, anyway. The doc said I'll never fly again. Not after what they did to my eyes."

Arthur felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach. His eyes… what had they done to his eyes? Arthur searched for something to say. There was nothing to say. "Alfred…"

Alfred interrupted quickly as he looked up at the ceiling, his eyes shining. "Did you get my letters from Italy?"

Arthur let Alfred change the subject. "Yes. Your grammar is atrocious and you can't spell in Italian."

Alfred laughed, but kept his eyes on the ceiling, blinking rapidly. "Oh. I do apologise."

Arthur's heart ached. He just wanted to take Alfred home, wanted to hold him, wanted to touch him and kiss him and… "When will they let you out of here?" The question came out before Arthur even thought about asking it.

"Soon as my injuries heal up I guess. Well, the ones that _can_ heal, anyway." Alfred looked down at his hand resting on the bed. Arthur felt another wave of anger overwhelm him. Anger at the Germans, at the war. At what it had done to Alfred; what it had taken from him. Alfred was supposed to be young and cheerful and optimistic and naive forever. This wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

Arthur squeezed Alfred's hand gently. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"Nah, don't be silly. Could've been worse." Alfred winked at him, and he reminded Arthur so much of that charming, irritating young pilot who had first walked into his pub. But there was something different, something changed; something lost. He wasn't quite the same anymore. But he was still the wide-eyed fool Arthur had been helpless to stop himself falling in love with - he was still Alfred.

"I just want to take you home." Again, it was said before Arthur could think about it.

"I'd like that," said Alfred, smiling. "But first there's a… uh…" Alfred took a deep breath. "…a small matter that has to be cleared up."

"What?" Arthur suddenly remembered the last letter from Alfred, the one Matthew had handed him… _I have done something. It may have been incredibly stupid. It may have been treason. _Arthur looked over at the door, leant closer to Alfred, and whispered, "Alfred, what did you do?"

Alfred's eyes suddenly went wild as they stared into Arthur's. "I'm not a traitor, Arthur. I'm not."

Arthur nodded reassuringly, even as his stomach twisted with worry and curiosity. "I know."

"After everything I went through, and I didn't say a thing... I didn't tell them a thing! I didn't… so how can they…" Alfred spoke quickly, frantically.

"Ssh, it's all right. I know. You're not a traitor, Alfred. You're a hero." Arthur wanted nothing more than to fall onto the bed and hold Alfred in his arms. It was painful that he couldn't. "You really are."

Alfred laughed, high, slightly frenzied, as he gazed at the ceiling. "They all called me a hero. It made no damned sense. It was even in the papers, you know. The American hero who shot down an entire German squad." The smile fell from Alfred's lips. He sounded wistful as he continued. "I always wanted to be a hero. But somewhere along the way I realised that I didn't want to be their hero." Alfred turned his head, and his blazing blue eyes stared straight into Arthur's own. Straight into Arthur's core. "I wanted to be yours."

Arthur's breath caught in his throat. He'd never been so transfixed in his life. This entire mad, wild, surreal, amazing afternoon had led him here, back to his Alfred, to sitting next to the most perfect, damaged, beautiful person in the world, who needed Arthur just as much as Arthur needed him. Arthur held tight to the hand he hadn't released since he sat down hours earlier. "If you were my hero, what would you save me from?"

"From loneliness." Alfred said it like it was obvious.

Arthur smiled, happiness filling his chest; warming every part of him and soothing every concern and filling every gap that had ever existed within him. "Very well. You can be my hero, Alfred. If I can be yours."

Alfred just breathed out happily, grinned, winked, held Arthur's hand, heart, soul, all of it, everything. "Oh, Arthur. You always were."


	9. Chapter 9

_Tuesday 28 October, 1944_

_Alfred!_

_You… you… you! I should have known a little thing like being shot down and captured would not be enough to kill you. I can't tell you how damned happy I am to hear you're all right, old friend!_

_We all nearly fell over when we heard the news. The whole squadron send their best for your quick recovery, although knowing you I am sure you will be up and about in no time - if you aren't already. Don't give the doctors too hard a time, they're just trying to help._

_I'm looking forward to seeing you once I get out of this mess over here. I'd say more, but you know what the censors are like._

_Your friend, Matthew._

_P.S. All the best to Arthur._

_._

Arthur finished reading the letter and handed it back to Alfred, who sighed in frustration and practically threw it onto the small table beside his bed. "I should be over there. I feel so useless."

"You've done enough." Arthur's gaze fell involuntarily on Alfred's mutilated hands. "More than enough." Arthur quickly shook his head and looked back up. "Now, let us return to the rather pressing matter at hand." He picked up the two pairs of glasses Alfred had earlier tossed down on the bed. "Let me see you in these fetching red ones once again." He leant over the bed and placed the glasses on Alfred's face, even as Alfred laughed helplessly and tried to pull away.

"Stop it! They're all terrible. Glasses don't suit me."

"Oh I don't know, I think these ones suit you quite well."

Arthur had asked earlier exactly what had happened to Alfred's eyes, but he quickly wished he hadn't. Alfred got as far as mentioning something about chemicals and burning before Arthur felt sick and begged him to stop. Whatever the enemy had done to him, Alfred had lost a large percentage of his sight. As Air Force pilots had to have perfect vision, and along with missing three fingers, Alfred would never fly for the military again. Alfred hadn't spoken much of it… but it was obvious he was devastated.

Alfred peered up at Arthur over the top of the glasses. "I'll never get used to these."

Arthur couldn't help laughing. They actually did suit him. "But of course you will. Stop complaining."

Arthur's pub had been running practically without him for the last week as he went back and forth to the hospital. The whole thing still felt like a dream… but a wonderful, beautiful dream from which he never wanted to wake. He watched Alfred get better every day in the few hours he was allowed to spend with him in the hospital. It felt like minutes. In the short time they had they talked, remembering everything about each other and learning more. Arthur spoke to Alfred, silly things, things to cheer him and distract him, things that usually led to an argument because Alfred always was so bloody frustrating. Arthur listened to Alfred, on the very few occasions when he started to speak about his experience, usually just a few words muttered before his eyes clouded over and he trailed into silence. And sometimes Arthur just sat, watching Alfred sleep, trying to grasp the fact that the only thing he'd ever truly wanted was in his grasp, in his heart, and lying before him.

"Any word on when you'll be out of here?" It was all Arthur thought about. He was desperate for Alfred to leave, to be alone with him, to be somewhere there weren't doctors and nurses and bloody military guards keeping watch twenty-four hours a day. But Alfred was a virtual prisoner until he gave the military the information they wanted to know about his escape. Every day someone tried to convince Alfred to explain how he'd gotten free of the Germans. Every day they left without an answer. An answer that Arthur didn't know himself, and had no idea why was so important not to disclose.

Alfred tossed the glasses back onto the bed. "Well, hopefully they'll let me out for Christmas. They won't even let me have a tree in here, can you believe it?"

Arthur just shook his head incredulously. Christmas. How could it be nearly Christmas again already? Arthur could barely believe how much time had passed since Alfred had left for Italy. Somehow he had lost all sense of time since Alfred barrelled into his life. "Spend Christmas with me." He said it without even thinking.

Alfred smiled up at him. "I'd love to spend Christmas with you."

"So tell them what they want to hear and you can."

Alfred groaned. "I told you, I can't!"

"So lie!" said Arthur. "Make some nonsense up and be done with it!"

"Lie?" Alfred looked shocked by the notion. "I can't do that either!"

"Why do you have to be so bloody…" Arthur stopped himself. So bloody frustrating, good, honest, stupid. Arthur fell back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, exasperated. "I just… I just…" he trailed off and dropped his gaze to the ground. "I just want to take you home. Out of here. Away from this bloody inquisition."

"You will. It'll all work out, you'll see." Arthur raised his eyes and Alfred winked. Arthur's heart flipped as he cursed inwardly. That bloody wink. "If I spend Christmas with you, can we put up a tree? And sing carols? And make those rum ball things you made last year that made everyone in the pub drunk? Those were fantastic."

Arthur thought for a second. "Yes, we can make the rum balls. No singing. But I will put up a tree for you."

"I'd like that," said Alfred, smiling as he reached out his hand. Arthur smiled back, took Alfred's hand, felt it's comforting exhilarating touch. Then he quickly dropped it when the guard at the door gave them a backwards glance.

Arthur glanced away. "I should be leaving."

Alfred pushed himself further up in the bed. "No!"

Arthur sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You know I'm not supposed to be here. The guards don't like it."

Alfred threw a filthy look at the two men outside the door. "Huh, like I give a damn what they think."

"Regardless, I don't want to get you into more trouble." And Arthur especially did not want to arouse more suspicion about their relationship. He already felt their emotional reunion had given away too much, so he'd tried to be careful during the last week with how he acted and what he said. He carefully kept his distance, while the whole time he ached to just throw himself into Alfred's arms.

Alfred looked at Arthur pleadingly. "Stay another ten minutes."

Arthur sighed. Every time Alfred asked him that he could never refuse. And he usually ended up staying until the staff asked him to leave.

.

Arthur knew Alfred was finally recovering when he walked into the hospital hallway the next morning to find Alfred rounding the far corner and speeding down the corridor in a wheelchair.

"Hi, Arthur!" Alfred cried cheerfully as he sped towards him.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" asked Arthur, part exasperated, part overjoyed to see how well Alfred looked. "You are ill! Get back to bed this instant!"

"Geez, you sound like a nurse." Alfred came to a screeching halt in front of Arthur and grinned up at him. Arthur scowled. The bloody Yank had certainly figured out how to use that grin on him.

"Feeling better then, are we?" Arthur tried to glare. He was fairly sure it wasn't working.

"I feel one hundred percent today," grinned Alfred. A loud shout came from behind them. Alfred tried clumsily to turn his chair. "Damn, he's catching up!"

Arthur turned to see another wheelchair turn the corner and speed down the hall. He raised his eyebrows. "Francis? So they caught you, did they?"

"Arthur, _mon ami_!" Francis smiled and came to a stop a few feet from where Alfred was trying unsuccessfully to manoeuvre his chair. "Caught? Never. They promised to send me back to France, so I returned willingly. Do excuse me one moment." Francis crashed his chair into the back of Alfred's, who groaned loudly. "I believe that is now two to me, Lieutenant."

"Best of five!" said Alfred, just as a stern looking nurse turned into the corridor and strode towards them. Arthur backed up against the wall and tried to look inconspicuous.

"What is going on now?" asked the nurse, standing over Francis and Alfred with her hands on her hips. "Captain Bonnefoy, I've told you to stop encouraging him!"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. _Captain_? Francis just shrugged. "Ah, you know what these kids are like." Francis cocked his head and looked up at the nurse inquisitively. "I'm sorry, but have you done something new with your hair? It looks…" he paused and waved his hand inexpressively. "… exquisite."

"Don't try that with me, Bonnefoy. I know you, and it won't work. Now, you." The nurse glared down at Alfred, who smiled charmingly.

"Me?"

"Any more of this and I will take away your visiting rights." She looked pointedly at Arthur.

"Try it," said Alfred, still smiling. "Because I know just how much you all enjoy dealing with me when I'm upset."

The nurse looked like she did know, and did not want to deal with it again any time soon. She folded her arms and tapped her foot. "Jones, get back to your room. And get out of that chair."

"I can't. I'm sick." Alfred coughed feebly, the smile not leaving his face. He winked at Arthur, who couldn't help laughing. Suddenly a loud voice shouted down the hall.

"Captain Bonnefoy! LIEUTENANT JONES!"

Francis and Alfred looked at each other, their eyes wide.

"Shit!"

"_Merde!"_

"Come, Arthur, we must make our escape!" Arthur choked back a shriek of surprise as Alfred grasped him by the waist, pulled him onto his lap, and took off in the wheelchair.

"What the HELL do you THINK…"

"Hold on, Arthur!" Alfred took off, narrowly avoiding the shocked nurse's feet, as the guards shouted at the end of the hall. Arthur clutched onto Alfred's shoulders to stop himself falling. Now this was ridiculous.

"Go, brave friends! I shall hold them off! _Pour la France!"_ Arthur looked back to see Francis charging his wheelchair towards the military guards, but he didn't see the result as Alfred swiftly turned a corner, narrowly avoiding crashing into the wall.

Arthur wasn't sure whether to be terrified or just mildly irritated. Of course he was completely confused, and also strongly aware of how close his body was to Alfred's. Perhaps that was why he wasn't as angry as he maybe should have been. Alfred narrowly missed a wall again. "Why aren't you wearing your glasses?" cried Arthur.

"Don't need 'em," said Alfred. He finally slowed as he reached a door, then stood and hauled Arthur through it. Alfred slammed the door behind them and pulled Arthur into a bruising kiss. Arthur froze in shock, started to say something, then stopped thinking. In the dark room Arthur couldn't see a thing, but he could taste Alfred's lips strong and warm against his, could smell that scent which was so overwhelmingly _Alfred_, could feel the rapid rising of their chests pressed together; Alfred's hand firm and gentle against the back of his neck, his arm tight around his waist. Arthur's head spun and he pulled Alfred tighter against him, as tight as he dared. _Finally._ Seconds before Arthur lost all control, he managed to pull back, breathing heavily.

"Alfred, stop, what if they…"

"Ssh," said Alfred, pulling Arthur back and whispering against his lips. "Please, just… just let me kiss you…"

Arthur could not argue with that. After all, this was what he had been desperate for since the first moment he had laid eyes on Alfred in the hospital room. But there were no nurses or doctors or guards here. The kiss was everything he remembered and everything he had dreamt of. It was warmth and love and promise. It was Alfred. And it was over too quickly. After only a few seconds, the shouting voices outside drew closer. Arthur broke the kiss reluctantly and held his breath.

Alfred giggled softly and Arthur thumped him lightly on the shoulder.

"_Non, non, monsieur,_ he went the other way, did you not see? Oh la la, these difficult Americans. Quickly, this way!" Arthur could hear Francis' voice just outside the door. The sound of footsteps slowly receded down the hall and Arthur breathed out, relieved. He squinted up at Alfred, but couldn't make him out in the darkness.

"I think you should get back to your room, Lieutenant Jones," said Arthur sternly, even as he clung to Alfred's arms.

"Arthur," whispered Alfred.

"Yes?"

"I think we're in a closet."

Arthur dissolved into laughter. Alfred managed to sneak another kiss before Arthur dragged him out of the cupboard, forced him into the wheelchair, and wheeled him back down the hallway.

Arthur wheeled Alfred into the hospital room to find no guards at the door. Arthur slowed to a stop when they walked through the door and found a tall, well-dressed officer standing in the centre of the room. Bloody marvellous. Someone else sent to interrogate Alfred. Arthur narrowed his eyes at the officer, who just nodded at Alfred. "Good morning Lieutenant."

The officer glanced at Arthur, furrowed his brows, then looked back at Alfred who gave a half-hearted, almost sarcastic salute.

"Hello."

"So, the Magician, is it?" asked the officer in a loud American accent.

"That's what they call me," said Alfred, grinning cockily. Arthur suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"Well Lieutenant, you certainly live up to your nickname, because I really don't know any other way to describe it but magic. You're free to go." The officer looked down at Alfred's chair. "Once you're well enough to move around, of course."

Arthur's heart stopped. He glanced quickly at Alfred, who just gazed up at the officer, slightly dazed. "I am?"

"We just received a call from our contacts in Italy," explained the officer, occasionally glancing warily at Arthur as he spoke. "They've been given some information from a local partisan movement. All this time we've been holding you because you've refused to tell us how you got free, and it's something as simple as this? Why the hell didn't you just tell us you were rescued by the Italian resistance?"

"Oh." Arthur blinked in surprise, but when he looked at Alfred he could tell that he was shocked but trying to hide it. "I must have… forgot."

The officer looked at Alfred suspiciously and shook his head. "You're a stupid man, Jones. A stupid, lucky man. Congratulations. Once you're fit and healthy, you're out of here. They're giving you a medal and shipping you home to the states."

Arthur's stomach sank and a sudden heavy wave crushed his chest.

"Oh," said Alfred again, flatly. "Hooray."

The officer saluted. "Good day, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, sure… and, thanks. I guess." Alfred half-heartedly saluted back.

The officer strode from the room after throwing another suspicious glare at Arthur.

Alfred breathed out heavily, turned, and gave Arthur a cheerless smile. "Well, there you go. Didn't I tell ya it would all sort out?"

Arthur could barely hear past the rushing in his ears_. …shipping you home to the states… _"They're sending you home." No. Not this. How could they make Alfred leave? Arthur had only just got him back!

Alfred looked at a loss for words. "Apparently. But…"

Arthur shook his head, swallowed heavily, and slowly backed away. This was too much. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want this again. Not again. "I have to leave."

Alfred stood up, pushing the chair away, and grasped pleadingly onto Arthur's hand. "Don't go, Arthur."

"It's late. I've stayed far too long." Arthur tried to pull away, but Alfred held insistently onto his hand.

"You just got here! What… when will you come back?" Alfred's eyes were wild and anxious.

"Soon." Arthur tried to smile and looked away from Alfred's distressed expression. He took a deep breath. "Very soon, I promise."

"Tomorrow," said Alfred firmly. He moved into Arthur's line of sight, fixed Arthur's eyes with his and repeated, almost frantically, "Tomorrow, yes?"

"Yes, Alfred. Tomorrow. I'll see you tomorrow." Arthur finally felt Alfred's hand slip from his. He turned and walked towards the door, the whole time screaming at himself... _Turn around, turn around, turn around_… Why was he doing this? Why didn't he turn back? But Arthur could not stop himself as he walked out the door, through the empty corridor, and out the front door of the hospital into the cold street.


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur could not bring himself to visit Alfred the next day. He quickly reverted to old habits and spent the day losing himself in work: upset, distraught, and wondering what the hell he was doing deliberately staying away from Alfred. Arthur always hoped that the noise and commotion of the pub would take his mind off everything. It never did. While some part of him recognised that he was trying to avoid the same soul crushing hurt he had just gone through, he knew at the same time that all he was doing was hurting himself more. Arthur barely slept that night, stunned at how much he missed Alfred after one day, and feeling desperately guilty for breaking his promise to visit.

Arthur woke early the next day, determined to visit Alfred before opening the pub. He stood inside his front door, glaring at it, trying to work up the courage to walk out of it, when it suddenly slammed open and he jumped in surprise. Then he choked back a gasp when Alfred walked through it and stood right in front of him. Dressed once again in his uniform and bomber jacket, his cap at an angle on his head, Alfred was like a vision out of one of Arthur's all too frequent dreams. Only he was wearing glasses. Arthur stared at him, stunned. "What are you… but… I…" He had no idea what to say. "I thought I locked that door!"

"Why didn't you come back?"

Arthur almost took a step back from the fiery look in Alfred's eyes. "Alfred, it was only one day, I… I was just upset when that officer said they were…" Arthur blinked a few times. "…sending you home."

Alfred looked incredulous. "Arthur, I was always going to go back to America one day. You must have known that."

The sudden pain in Arthur's chest was overwhelming. But of course. It never meant anything to Alfred. He was always planning to go home and leave him. Arthur could almost feel his heart breaking. But he just narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to respond angrily, to shout and scream and yell at Alfred to leave then, go back to America and never come back. But Alfred continued before he had the chance.

"But didn't I promise that I would always come back to you?"

All the hurt and anger suddenly deflated and Arthur was left just feeling confused. "Pardon?"

"You're a damned sensitive guy at times, Arthur, for all you try to act so tough." Alfred sighed and his eyes softened. "Not that I don't understand it. Yesterday, I waited and waited and when you didn't turn up, I… I thought…" Alfred broke off and looked down at the floor, blinking rapidly. "I thought you must be done with me."

Arthur gasped. He'd never heard a more preposterous notion. _"Done _with you? How could you even…"

"You were always trying to leave. And you never wanted to touch me. And…"

"There were guards outside your room twenty-four hours a day - if I didn't touch you it was because I was afraid of arousing suspicion! Of _course_ I wanted to touch you, I thought I made that perfectly clear in that bloody cupboard! I've been positively _aching_ to touch you…"

Then it suddenly hit them both at the same time. What the hell were they talking about? Why did any of it matter? They were alone. No doctors, no nurses, no guards... After a second's pause that felt like an hour, Arthur fell desperately against Alfred, who grasped him so frantically he nearly lifted him off the ground. Their lips met almost violently, teeth clashing, and Arthur choked back a moan at the feeling of completion and relief. This wasn't a stolen kiss in a hallway cupboard. This was every ounce of longing and desire Arthur had held for so long pouring out at once. This was the culmination of all those months of waiting and fear and loneliness. This was what he had longed for for so long and so much that it felt like the only thing in the world he had ever wanted. Alfred in his arms, kissing him, wanting Arthur like Arthur wanted him; no one to stop them and nothing between them. This almost couldn't be real.

Alfred broke away just long enough to say, "I was so worried you wouldn't come back."

Arthur shook his head in disbelief and pulled Alfred back down into the kiss. After a few moments Alfred broke it again.

"Now that I'm not a fighter pilot…"

That got Arthur to pause. He stared up at Alfred incredulously. "You think I fell in love with you because you were a pilot?"

"Well, it's just… I was somebody important, and now I'm useless and, and…" Alfred seemed to search for something else to say. "…and I have to wear these stupid glasses," he finished. Arthur almost laughed, but Alfred just looked so lost. Arthur had forgotten how young he could seem at times.

"Alfred, you are quite the biggest fool I have ever met. I don't care about something so absurdly trivial as what you do for a living. How could you ever think that you're not important?"

Alfred shrugged and sighed. "I don't know, I guess I just worked myself up walking here from the hospital…"

Arthur's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. How the hell had he not realised it?! "Wait, wait…" he said frantically, "The hospital! They've let you out of the hospital!" Arthur paused and his stomach fell. Of course. This must be goodbye. He let his hands drop from Alfred's arms. When Alfred said he had to go home one day Arthur hadn't realised he meant so soon. "They're sending you home already."

"No." Alfred shook his head firmly. "I'm not going anywhere just yet."

Arthur was sure he had misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

"You think I'd let them send me away from you, now, when I only just got you back? I'd never let them. I'd never let anyone." Arthur felt a thrill of joy run through him at the words. Alfred laughed breathlessly. "They finally agreed to let me stay in England... not that I gave them much of a choice."

"But… what will you be doing?" asked Arthur, finally looking up into Alfred's eyes, his chest swelling with hope.

"Training. Apparently they're low on flight instructors. Can you believe it? The military is actually letting me train British pilots!"

Arthur shook his head, wide-eyed. "God help the English nation."

Alfred's eyes narrowed. "Huh, what do you mean by…"

"Shut up, Alfred." Arthur grasped the back of Alfred's head and pulled him into a forceful kiss. Alfred responded by crushing Arthur's chest to his and, slightly off balance, they fell back against the wall. Arthur didn't pause. He couldn't. Nothing could make him stop now. Hearing those words, knowing Alfred was staying with him, feeling him in his arms… Arthur had never imagined such happiness was possible. It was almost too much to take. Arthur pressed back and brought Alfred with him as they slid down the wall, entangled, their lips still joined. They landed heavily but Arthur barely noticed. Their lips finally parted when Arthur fell onto his back and Alfred fell over him, holding himself up with his arms.

"Wait," said Alfred breathlessly. "Are you…"

"Can't wait… can't stop…" Arthur reached up and brought Alfred's lips back to his. It had been too long, for both of them. Arthur pulled desperately at their clothes but only just managed to unbutton his trousers before Alfred's lips, his breath, his touch, this overwhelming reality overcame him. It had been too long, this was too close, it was too much. One brush of Alfred's hand and it was over in one intense, overpowering moment. Alfred followed immediately, clutching onto Arthur's hips with sweat-soaked hands before he shuddered and moaned into Arthur's ear. He hadn't even managed to unbutton his pants.

After taking a minute to catch his breath, Arthur burst into laughter, closely followed by Alfred. But Arthur quickly gasped and shot upright, concerned… Alfred had only just left hospital, what the hell was he doing dragging him onto the floor! "Oh bloody hell, are you all right?"

Alfred just kept laughing. "I've never been more all right in my entire life." He pulled Arthur back down and kissed him again. Arthur decided to believe him. After all, he felt the same way.

Eventually they lay getting their breath back. It should have been uncomfortable lying on the floor, but it wasn't. Arthur felt he could lay there forever.

"Do you know," said Alfred breathlessly, "This is the table where we first met."

Arthur looked up and realised that they had landed right beside the table by the second front window - the same table Alfred always chose to sit at. "It is?"

"Yeah, I remember it perfectly. And the first thing you ever said to me…" Alfred furrowed his brows and twisted his face into a furious expression before shouting, "'Get the bloody hell down from that bloody table you stupid bloody Yank!'"

Arthur thought for a moment. "Oh yes, I did say that, didn't I?"

"You always did swear too much. Terrible language, really," said Alfred, shaking his head, though he seemed to be trying not to laugh. Arthur just glared at him. Alfred didn't appear to notice. "Do you remember that, Arthur? The first night we met?"

Arthur couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. "Remember? How could I possibly forget? You barged through the door, introduced yourself as the man who was going to save England, then proceeded to drink an entire bottle of bourbon, attempt to start a fight with a chair, and end the night by passing out on top of the bar." How could Arthur ever forget the day that his life had turned upside down? "I can't believe it's been a year since then." It felt like yesterday... but at the same time it felt like a lifetime ago.

Alfred laughed and pulled himself into a sitting position against the wall. "I was in a good mood that night. I'd just fallen in love."

Arthur peered up at Alfred and tried to ignore the fluttering feeling in his chest. "That is embarrassingly sentimental."

"Why are you smiling like that then?"

"I'm laughing at you."

"No you're not."

"Shut up, Alfred." But Arthur was still smiling when Alfred pulled him against his chest and put an arm around him.

Arthur lost track of how long he just sat there, leaning against the wall with Alfred, their bodies pressed together and their breathing slowly returning to normal. The sun rose high in the sky through the window. The morning marched slowly on, time running past them, with nothing they could do to stop it. Arthur finally broke the tranquil silence with a question that had been bothering him for days. It came out more like a statement. "It wasn't the resistance who freed you, was it."

Alfred's breath hitched. Arthur didn't dare to look up at him. "Not really, no." At that, Arthur glanced up quizzically. "It was Ludwig."

"Ludwig?" Arthur's eyebrows furrowed for a moment before he remembered where he had heard that name. Of course, Alfred's letters, the ones he had read a hundred times. Ludwig was the German fighter pilot who had been captured, the one with the photo, the one who was loved by an Italian resistance fighter. "Ohh. Why? How?"

Alfred took a deep breath. His arm tightened around Arthur while his other hand grasped for Arthur's own. Arthur took it and squeezed reassuringly. Alfred sat in silence for a moment before he finally started speaking. "When I was captured, after a certain point, I don't remember a lot of it. I'm grateful for that. It all just sort of blurred into a haze of pain and nightmare." Arthur clutched even tighter to Alfred's hand. "I should have been sent to a P.O.W camp, but they seemed to think I had collaborated with the Italian resistance movement. I don't know what they thought I knew. I don't know what they wanted me to tell them. But I told them nothing and they eventually moved me to a new base. I remember being brought in, and that's when I saw the German pilot again. I will never forget that face."

Alfred broke off, his eyes unfocused. After a few moments he continued. "One afternoon, I was handed over to the Gestapo, and... and..." Alfred's voice was low and strained, like the words were painful for him to get out. They were painful for Arthur to hear. "...and I don't want to talk about that afternoon," Alfred finished in a whisper, his eyes almost blank as they gazed unseeing at the floor.

Again Alfred paused and Arthur waited patiently. He knew how difficult this must be for Alfred. He had barely spoken of his experience in captivity, and Arthur preferred it that way. The few allusions he had made to the matter just tore at Arthur's heart. He couldn't bear to hear about the hell Alfred had gone through just because the SS wanted information that he didn't even possess. But Arthur stayed silent, determined to listen to anything that Alfred had to say.

"But that night, when everyone had finally finished with me, Ludwig came into my room. I thought I was dreaming. But I wasn't, he was really there, and he took me out of the base. I don't know how long he walked with me on his back... I could barely move, you see. It turns out he spoke English, and he kept trying to keep me awake. He asked me about you. We spoke about soccer and baseball. And I remember at one point we had a conversation about frogs." Alfred suddenly looked at Arthur and spoke brightly. "Did you know that there is a species of frog in South America that has enough poison to kill two thousand people?"

Arthur shook his head, slightly startled by this random change in topic. "No. I did not know that."

"Neither did I. Huh. Well, apart from those things, it is mostly all a blur. But eventually there were other people, and I recognised some of them too... Even though we couldn't have been near their village, Rome was there, and Lovino. But I don't remember seeing Feliciano. Then Ludwig disappeared and the next thing I know I woke up in an American base." Alfred shrugged. "And there you have it. After that it was just months of recovery at the base before weeks stuck on a hospital ship." Alfred sighed. "I can't imagine what would happen to Ludwig if the German military found out what he did."

Arthur sat in silence, trying to process what he had just heard. "I can't believe it. A German rescued you! What on earth… why..."

"Arthur, I…" Alfred took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. Arthur waited silently. "The reason Ludwig was free in the first place was... Well, earlier, when Ludwig was our prisoner, I... I gave Feliciano classified information. Information about how and where Ludwig was being held. A few days later we heard he had been broken out. Feliciano must have done it. And as soon as I heard I knew it was my fault. If I hadn't given Feliciano that information he would never have managed it. I helped an enemy escape. Heck, I may as well have busted him out of there myself."

"Oh, Alfred." Alfred truly was the most good, kind, stupid man Arthur had ever met.

"I betrayed my country." Alfred spoke in a whisper, staring at his hands, lost and frightened and devastated.

"No!" Arthur met Alfred's eyes and shook his head. "You helped one man - a good man. A man who later helped you. You didn't betray anyone."

"I know it was wrong. He was our enemy, he was a prisoner. But Feliciano was so good and sweet and he loved Ludwig so much and… and I let all these stupid feelings get in the way of my duty." Alfred looked up, wide-eyed, into Arthur's eyes and whispered, "Arthur, if anyone ever knew…"

Arthur squeezed Alfred's hand reassuringly. "They never will," he said firmly. "It's all right. They never will." Arthur could not tell Alfred he had done nothing wrong. But neither could he blame him or judge him. "Listen, Alfred, if you had not done what you did, you would not have been rescued yourself. You'd have been..." Arthur did not need to finish that sentence. "Ludwig may be an enemy, but… I'm bloody grateful to him." Arthur tried to think through it all. Alfred had helped Ludwig escape, and Ludwig had done the same thing for Alfred. It was all so incredible. "What happened to Feliciano?"

Alfred shrugged sadly. "I don't know. But he's a resistance fighter. Ludwig is a German officer. I really do hope that he and Ludwig can be happy somehow. But I just don't see how that could ever happen."

Silence fell once again. Arthur held onto Alfred's hand and thought how incredibly bloody lucky he really was. Against all the odds, Alfred had come back to him. Although he may be heading back to the states, and though they may never be able to be open about their feelings, and though they would always have to hide in their love in secrecy, it was still possible - it was really possible for them to love each other and in some way to be together. But somewhere miles away, stuck in the middle of a war and a situation they could never control, there were two good men who could never do the same, even though they loved each other just as much. It was so unfair.

Arthur was not sure how long they simply sat quietly together. Though at first Arthur felt he could lie against the wall with Alfred forever, eventually he twisted awkwardly, and the hard wall behind him started to dig into his back. "Alfred, I'm afraid this is becoming rather uncomfortable."

"You're absolutely right. We need to move immediately."

"I completely agree."

Alfred winked, and Arthur's heart jumped. "I think your bed would be a heck of a lot more comfortable than this floor."

Arthur couldn't agree more.


	11. Chapter 11

It took far longer than it should have to reach the bedroom. First they tumbled over on the stairs, and Arthur absolutely could not move until Alfred finally stopped kissing the base of his throat. When they did manage to reach the top, Arthur was again delayed by Alfred pressing him against the wall and kissing him with such a burning hunger that he would have fallen to the floor were it not for Alfred's strong hands on his hips. And they almost made it through the living room, but Arthur's knees gave way when they knocked into the couch. They both fell onto it, Alfred's glasses falling to the floor, and they didn't manage to stand again until Arthur was practically panting with lust. By the time they finally reached the bedroom Arthur was missing a shirt, his shoes, and any sense of self control whatsoever. He was also quite aware that there was no way he would be opening the pub today.

They fell onto the bed and Alfred pulled Arthur to his chest, his arms surrounding him and roaming over his back. Arthur shuddered as their bodies met and he pushed his hips against Alfred's, too far gone for hesitation. Alfred responded with a moan and his thigh came up to part Arthur's legs and press between them. Arthur's mind spun, feeling this was happening too fast, feeling it was not happening fast enough. He couldn't think. He just needed to feel Alfred's skin against his. He pulled frantically on Alfred's shirt but suddenly Alfred caught his wrist and shook his head. "Wait, no." His startling look of panic made Arthur still immediately.

"What is it?" asked Arthur, confused, his fingers still clutching the buttons of Alfred's shirt. He slid his hand into Alfred's as his mind raced to calm down and catch up. Had he pressed too much, pushed too far?

"I should tell you…" Alfred looked down and paused for a few moments, looking utterly insecure. "I… my plane, when she crashed… everything was burning…" he trailed into silence. Arthur waited, trying to breathe evenly, but Alfred didn't continue.

"The plane was burning…" prompted Arthur, unsure why Alfred was bringing this up or where it was going.

Alfred nodded then looked up slowly, his eyes wide and full of uncertainty. "I was burned."

"Ohh," breathed Arthur, concern flooding him as he slowly sat up, his hand still caught in Alfred's. How could he be so careless… "I'm sorry, did I hurt you? I wasn't thinking, I keep forgetting you're still injured…"

"No, the wound has healed, as much as it can, I'm just…" Alfred looked down again. "…scarred. Badly," he finished in a whisper.

Arthur felt a tingling shock then a stab of pain in his chest. Alfred had kept his upper body completely hidden since Arthur had first found him in the hospital. This was obviously something that had been worrying him for a while. Arthur swallowed, nodded, then gently removed his hand from Alfred's before reaching again for the shirt. Something gnawed sickeningly at his stomach, but he ignored it. It was time for him to see what Alfred was hiding, and if he could handle it.

"Arthur…" Alfred's voice was low with apprehension.

"Shush." Arthur unbuttoned the shirt, slid it over Alfred's shoulders, then pushed it off altogether. Then he stilled. His heart raced swiftly but he just sat, immobile, staring silently. Red and white scar tissue covered the entire right side of Alfred's chest, raised and carved, a mass of scarred wounds which spread from his upper arm across his shoulder and chest to just below his stomach. Arthur blinked rapidly, his heart physically aching. He could not comprehend the agony something like that must have caused. Some part of him held the smallest suspicion that he _should_ be revolted, and yet he wasn't at all. It was shocking, but it was a part of Alfred. Arthur could not possibly be revolted by any part of Alfred. As Arthur tried to think of something to say, Alfred reached up and tried to cover his chest with his hand.

"I'm sorry," said Alfred quietly. "I didn't want you to see. And I know if… I mean, I understand if…"

Arthur's aching heart felt like it could split in two. He again took Alfred's hand and shook his head. He tried to blink back the tears that pricked his eyes. This uncertainty was a side of Alfred he had never seen. "Alfred, you're perfect." And he was. He was human, and vulnerable, and he was perfect. Then Arthur pulled Alfred down with him as he lay back against the soft pillows. He slowly understood, there was no need to be fast and frantic. They had all the time in the world.

As their bodies met, as their lips touched, Arthur tried to show Alfred that a scar didn't mean anything; that Arthur wanted him just as much. That he really was, always had been, and always would be perfect. It didn't take long for Alfred to seem to understand, and to lose himself in the intensity and the passion once again.

Alfred finally divested Arthur of his last remaining item of clothing then paused, looking down at him while Arthur felt his spine flush with heat. "My God," Alfred breathed, almost devouring Arthur with his eyes. "But you're the most goddamn beautiful thing in the entire world."

Arthur felt his face turn red. "Don't be absurd," he muttered as he drew Alfred back into his arms. Alfred laughed and Arthur felt almost weak at the relief of hearing it.

"But I mean it…"

"Shut up."

_It was hard to say how he had fallen in love like this. How that annoying, irritating, frustrating American had drawn him in, how Arthur had been somehow enchanted by him, how all common sense just flew out the window whenever Alfred was in the room. He didn't know. He didn't care._

Where earlier had been fast and frenzied and desperate, this was slow and gentle and soft and _wonderful…_ Where the last time they had been in this bed was sad and bitter and heartbreaking, this time was fast becoming warm and happy and hopeful. And though Arthur grasped at Alfred's back with impatient hands, Alfred remained unhurried and thorough and gentle. It was all too breathtaking… to finally be back here, to finally be able to touch Alfred without fear and dread of the coming morning, just to feel and taste and take his time and lose himself in everything he had wanted for so long. Arthur still could not get used to this: to Alfred here in his arms, to this comforting feeling and the scent he loved and the grin that Alfred would occasionally break the kiss to flash at him, making his already pounding heart jump.

Alfred's hands were soft but steady as they lightly traced over Arthur's heated skin. Arthur could not tear his lips from Alfred's. And with their chests touching, the melding of their hips, Alfred's heated and rapid breath against him, things quickly escalated once again. The heat in Arthur's spine centered and shot to a single point. He tried to be gentle and careful of Alfred's injuries, but Alfred just pressed urgently against Arthur as his hands grew hot and shaky. Before Arthur even thought of it, Alfred reached over and grabbed the jar of cold cream from the bedside table. Arthur waited in anticipation, but Alfred just looked at it for a moment.

"Why do you keep this here?"

Arthur furrowed his brows. "It's good for the skin. Keeps it soft." Then he coughed, slightly embarrassed that he sounded like a _'Good Housekeeping'_ article.

"Oh, really?" Alfred did not sound convinced as he dipped his fingers into the jar.

"What the bleeding hell do you think I keep it here for?" asked Arthur, slightly annoyed at Alfred questioning him about his skincare routine at a time like this.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe this?" Alfred reached between Arthur's legs. Arthur let out a shuddering gasp at the incredible feeling of Alfred's cold, slick fingers grasping him. He tried ineffectually to push Alfred indignantly on the shoulder, though it was a half-hearted attempt. "Hey, I was gone for months, I don't blame you," said Alfred, grinning wickedly as he stroked Arthur slowly. "But I'm back now, so I know a better use for this…"

"You are completely crass do you know that Alfred Jones, you really _ahhh_!" Arthur threw his head back and cried out when he felt Alfred's hand move further down. Alfred leant down to kissed Arthur's cheek, then trailed his lips up to his ear where he whispered, low and urgently.

"I want to be inside you, Arthur."

Arthur's heart pounded and his stomach twisted as his indignation melted. He could only whisper back. "Yes." Their lips touched and their breath mingled, hot and rapid, as Arthur felt Alfred's fingers press inside him. Arthur felt nothing but bliss, his body throbbing with it, and all he wanted was to feel Alfred even closer.

_Actually, it was easy to say how he had fallen in love like this. Because Alfred was cheerful and drew him out of his melancholy. Because he was dazzling and had brought the sun into Arthur's grey world. Because he really was Arthur's hero. He'd saved him. They'd saved each other._

Alfred took his time, and everything was breathtaking and intense. It was magic. Waves of pleasure almost overwhelmed Arthur. His body burned in the icy fire of his sweat, thrumming with desire and fulfillment. Arthur became lost in the look of need and ecstasy on Alfred's face as he thrust into him, both forcefully and gently, their bodies melded into one.

Their breath mingled, their skin slid perfectly together, their hearts beat rapidly in a similar rhythm as Alfred's warm hands and lips and skin drove Arthur to greater heights of pleasure than he thought possible. It felt like he remembered, and like nothing he had ever felt; comforting and new and everything all at once. Arthur pressed against Alfred's neck, breathing him in, feeling his pulse thrumming against his lips. He'd almost forgotten how it felt to be this close to Alfred, to feel his heart and body moving with his. But when he locked eyes with Alfred, he knew that he would never forget again.

The months of being without him, the pain and the loneliness, now made Arthur realise just how deep this really was. And yet that tiny fear remained, that small terror that it might happen again; so he suppressed it by whispering, barely conscious of what he was saying, things like _"My Alfred"_ and _"Finally here"_ and _"I love you"_ and all that nonsense until he was simply saying Alfred's name over and over in a breathless litany. Alfred. Alfred, who was so beautiful and alluring and so perfect, and, as arrogant as he was, seemed somehow not to know it.

A sharp awareness cut through Arthur's mind. The midday sunlight that filtered through the curtains… the sound of the bed creaking so loud it might break… the eerie stillness of the world outside themselves. But when it came to a climax, Arthur was looking in Alfred's eyes, and he was the only thing in the entire world. Arthur clutched onto his shoulders, hoping he wasn't hurting him, but Alfred's grip on him was just as strong. As the tension built in his stomach he dropped his hands, grasped Alfred's hips and pulled him deeper.

It was Alfred's face, contorted with pleasure, that did it. The sight tipped Arthur over the edge and he shuddered, calling Alfred's name in ecstasy, releasing over them both. Alfred suddenly went rigid, let forth a shout, and Arthur felt the warmth surround him as Alfred clutched him tightly. Arthur's climax was pulled even further from him, and with the blissful pleasure he almost fell back into darkness, but was pulled back by Alfred's lips caressing his cheek.

Arthur tangled his hand through Alfred's sweat-soaked hair as he lay breathing rapidly on Arthur's shoulder. "Heavy," Arthur finally managed to choke out. Alfred quickly muttered an apology and rolled over, pulling Arthur with him and sighing happily. Arthur contentedly curled into Alfred's side and placed an arm over him as carefully as he could manage. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Arthur smiled. "No." He closed his eyes. He was not alone anymore. He'd never felt so content. It was all so natural, so comfortable. Here in Alfred's arms was the only place Arthur had ever felt like he really belonged. It was as though nothing had ever occurred to tear them apart, as though the awful months of the last year had never happened, and all the empty, lonely years before that no longer mattered. They had all led up to this. When Arthur opened his eyes they fell on a piece of red and white cloth lying on the bedside table. His stomach leapt, and he reached for it.

"What's that?" asked Alfred.

Arthur looked down at the handkerchief and found that, even now, his chest felt tight. He had thought this was all he had left of Alfred. "I believe this is yours," he said, holding it out. Alfred looked down at the cloth in Arthur's hand, his expression unreadable. "Matthew gave it to me. He said they found it in the wreckage."

Alfred took the handkerchief slowly, his eyes slightly unfocused. "I remember." He stopped and did not speak for a few moments. When he did his voice was soft. "I was holding this. When Lady Beth went down." He ran his fingers over it gingerly. "The flames were everywhere and I couldn't breathe. I couldn't escape. I remember, I looked down and this was the last thing I saw. And I thought…" Alfred looked up into Arthur's eyes. "I thought I was the luckiest guy in the entire world."

The stillness of the day settled around them, and Arthur felt like he would never be able to move again. Like he never wanted to.

"And you know," Alfred continued, "I really reckon I am."

Arthur smiled happily, sadly, and his gaze drifted down to Alfred's scars. "Alfred, I'm so terribly sorry about Lady Beth."

Alfred's eyes widened as they shot up. He stared at Arthur for a moment, shook his head, then broke the silence by bursting into laughter. "I love you, Arthur." Arthur blinked quizzically. "Do you know, not one other person has said that to me. You really do know me."

"And I'm going to find out a whole lot more." Arthur smiled as he said it, remembering a conversation they had once had, so similar to this, when Alfred had spoken those very words. This time however, Arthur knew that the next time he awoke, Alfred would be beside him.


	12. Chapter 12

The months passed like minutes, and life was fantastic, frustrating, different, beautiful, everything.

_December._

Christmas 1944 was one of the most interesting of Arthur's life. Everything tended to be interesting when Alfred was involved. A gigantic Christmas tree loomed in the corner of the pub, the biggest tree Alfred could find in the entire city of London, which was so large it was squashed against the ceiling and had required the assistance of several servicemen to get through the front door. The rest of the room was covered with makeshift decorations Alfred had strewn around the place - snowflakes made of paper, brightly coloured tinsel, empty bottles with tiny lights inside. Arthur thought it all hideously tacky. Alfred thought it was festive. The regular customers found it all rather strange, but not as strange as the loud American who insisted on trying to help out behind the bar. He was hopeless, but somehow no one ever complained when he forgot to get them their drink or served them the wrong one or somehow managed to spill it all over them. Arthur wondered whether that had something to do with Alfred's missing fingers, or the fact that no one could stay mad at the happy, friendly American for long. Today Alfred was trying particularly hard, and being particularly irritatingly cheerful. It was Christmas Eve and the pub was full of Christmas revellers, including Francis, who had been more than happy to spend one of his last evenings in England with Alfred and Arthur.

Alfred grinned widely as he carried a tray of drinks to the bar and set a glass down before Francis with a flourish. "Your brandy, sir."

"Alfred, that's bourbon," said Arthur, watching him from behind the bar and hoping desperately he wouldn't drop the tray for the third time that week. His already limited patience was being stretched to the limit.

"I asked for wine," said Francis, staring disdainfully at the glass.

"Oh," said Alfred. He shrugged. "Try the bourbon, it's good."

"Alfred," said Arthur, a low exclamation of warning and exasperation.

"Or, ah, I could just get you that wine, shall I?"

Francis sighed. "Don't bother, I would not wish you to hurt yourself." He took a sip, made a face, and pushed the glass away. "Urgh, that is terrible. How do you drink this poison?"

"Here," said Arthur, glaring at Alfred and picking up a tray of rum balls from behind the bar. He offered them to Francis. They were Arthur's specialty dessert that he made every Christmas, and he was quite proud of them, even though they seemed to make even the most hardened drinker rather ill by the second one. Francis eyed them suspiciously. "To remove the taste," Arthur explained.

"What are they?" asked Francis, picking one up and turning it over in his hand.

"Rum balls," said Alfred cheerfully. He placed the tray down and leant on the bar. "Delicious. Really. Arthur is the best cook in England." Arthur's frustration lessened and he beamed happily at the praise. Sometimes, Alfred could be sweet.

"Somehow, that does not fill me with confidence," said Francis slowly, but he raised the sweet to his mouth regardless.

Alfred nudged Arthur with his elbow and whispered with suppressed laughter, "Look, he believed me!" Arthur's eyes narrowed. Sometimes, Alfred could be such a git. Francis chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. Then his eyes went wide, his cheeks turned red, and after swallowing he suffered quite a violent coughing fit.

"Well?" asked Arthur and Alfred in unison. Francis blinked rapidly then turned to Alfred, his eyes bleary and red.

"Alfred! _Mon ami!_" cried Francis, his words slurred. "Do you know, you really are the most… such a great... you mean so much to me, do you know? After everything we've been through… and only you can understand that…" Francis threw an arm around Alfred's shoulder and leant into him heavily. Alfred struggled to hold him up.

"Whoa there buddy, maybe you should…"

"What are you looking at?" shouted Francis suddenly, glaring blearily at Alfred, whose eyes went wide.

"Nothing."

"_Imbecile!_ You want to fight me?" Francis swung an ineffectual punch which Alfred easily dodged. "Come on, flyboy, show me that American _esprit _you always speak of!" Another failed punch and Francis fell onto the bar stool, despondently throwing his arms across the bar. "It's not worth it! None of it! In the end, what is the point? I was in love once. He wore a polar bear on his lapel. _Alors_, that would make a great song!" Francis sobbed twice then fell off the bar. By the time he reached the floor he was out cold.

Alfred whistled. "How much rum did you put in those things, Arthur?"

"Actually," said Arthur, shaking his head in confusion, "That was one of the non alcoholic ones."

Later in the evening, after the pub had emptied, after Francis had been carried unconscious to the guest room, after Alfred had tried and failed to sing Christmas carols, after the local constabulary had issued a noise violation warning, and after the entire mad and glorious evening had come to an end, Arthur fell into bed with Alfred at his side. And he spent the first Christmas night of his life falling asleep full, happy, and loved instead of cold, empty, and sensing that something was missing. He could definitely get used to the feeling.

_January._

Arthur had never been so ready to say goodbye to a year as he had to 1944. Awful memories of the dark months of the year often arose unbidden, and he would be left breathless and terrified of being left alone again. And it was not just Arthur. He knew the toll the year had taken on Alfred. He could see it in the pain and guilt in Alfred's eyes when he spoke to soldiers in the pub. He could hear it in Alfred's voice on the terrible nights when he woke up screaming, when it took several minutes to convince him where he was as he lay shaking in Arthur's arms, crying tears only Arthur would ever see. Yes, 1944 was a year Arthur would not be sad to see go.

It was New Year's Eve, and Alfred was singing. That wasn't new. Alfred often sang, or rather a vague variation of the activity. It usually wasn't apparent _what_ he was actually singing until asked. This afternoon, for some reason, Alfred was singing, and doing it the way he always did: loudly, obnoxiously, and with no attention to tune or rhythm.

"What are you on about this time?" asked Arthur, peering at Alfred as the American leant over the bar and watched Arthur put away the last of the glasses for the afternoon. He had closed the pub early for New Year's Eve, the customers all headed home to spend the evening with their families.

"It's this song they were singing in the bar earlier. It's called _'Old Lang's Eye.' _I don't know why you Brits sing about an old guy's eye to celebrate the new year, but hey, it ain't my place to judge." And Alfred burst into song again. "_Let Old Aunt Quaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind…"_

Arthur blinked a few times, pausing midway in replacing a bottle of whiskey. Just when he thought he'd heard the stupidest thing the Yank could possibly come out with. "You do realise, it's called _'Auld Lang Syne.' _It has nothing to do with anyone's eye. And the word is _'acquaintance,'_ where on earth did you get _'Aunt Quaintance'_ from?"

Alfred shrugged. "I had an Aunt Quaintance once. I didn't really understand the words, I think they were in Chinese or something, so I just sort of made my own."

Arthur shook his head in exasperation. "You're hopeless." He replaced the whiskey, then turned to find Alfred gazing at him with a familiar glint in his eye. "What?" Alfred gazed at Arthur for a moment more before he suddenly jumped the bar, took Arthur by the waist, and spun him around until his back hit the bar. It all happened so fast Arthur's brain barely registered it. "Blimey, what the…"

"Do you know how many times I've stood behind that bar, watching you, and wanted to do that?" Alfred whispered against Arthur's ear.

Arthur gulped. "Is… is that so?" He was slowly getting used to these unexpected and impulsive displays of affection the Yank often gave. They were rather irritating, somewhat embarrassing, and yet strangely thrilling all at the same time.

"Mm hm." Alfred pressed his lips to Arthur's neck.

"And, er… what else did you want to do?" asked Arthur, heart thumping. They were usually worth going along with, as well.

Alfred grinned. "This." In minutes they lay spread across the bar, tangled in each other, Arthur's pants already unbuttoned and his mind spinning. Alfred's lips and hands were hot and frantic against him. He was just reaching that point where he always lost control when suddenly the front door slammed opened. Alfred shrieked and fell off the bar. Arthur shot up in surprise.

"Still not locking your door I see, Arthur."

Arthur and Alfred both sat stunned for a few seconds. Finally Alfred reacted, jumping up and breaking into laughter. "Matthew! What… how…" Alfred strode over and pulled Matthew into a hug. "What are you doing here? I thought you were stuck in France!"

"I had to fly back to wish you a happy new year, didn't I?" asked Matthew, patting Alfred's back. He was dressed in his combat uniform and looked as though he hadn't had proper sleep in weeks. He also looked happier than Arthur had ever seen him. "It's so good to see you, old friend. Alive."

Alfred pulled back and stared at Matthew, shaking his head in disbelief. "You rat, you could have let me known you were getting leave!"

"Where would the fun be in that?" Matthew looked even more like Alfred when he grinned like that. "Hi, Arthur."

Arthur stood and walked over to Matthew. It was a relief to see him. Arthur genuinely worried about Matthew over in France, almost as much as he knew Alfred did. He held out his hand and Matthew shook it firmly. "Jolly good to see you safe, old chap."

"You too, Arthur," said Matthew, his eyes almost piercing Arthur's. Arthur coughed and glanced nervously at Alfred. He hadn't yet told him of the awful state Matthew had found him in not long before they had been reunited. He rather hoped he would never have to. Matthew suddenly turned red, cleared his throat, and turned away. "I'm sorry, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Arthur shook his head innocently. "Not at all, whatever makes you think that?"

"Well, um… your pants are unbuttoned."

"Oh bloody hell," Arthur muttered, burning in embarrassment as he hurried off to fix himself up behind the bar. Alfred just laughed.

As the afternoon progressed, the three of them found themselves by the pub's fireplace, seated on the comfortable couches and drinking glasses of Arthur's finest brandy. Matthew told them all he knew of the war in France, about the awful landings of June, the glorious liberation of Paris, and his experiences in the south of the country. Alfred did not speak of his own experience, and Matthew did not ask. Eventually, the light outside long since faded, the conversation turned away from the war. Arthur knew they had all had quite enough of that topic. As Arthur leant over to refill his glass, the front door flew open once more. "That's it, I am going to install a padlock…"

"_Mon Dieu_ it is freezing out there. Arthur, have you closed the pub? I came by to say…" Francis fell silent when he reached the fireplace, his eyes falling on Matthew. "My Canadian!" he whispered. Matthew froze, wide-eyed, his hand clutching his brandy glass in midair.

"Excuse me?" To Arthur's surprise, Alfred's amusement, and Matthew's utter horror, Francis dropped to his knees before the stunned Canadian. "My love! I thought I had lost you forever and here I find you in the very place of our romance's beginning! It is fate! It is destiny! It is… _l'amour,_ _non_?"

"I... I... I'm sorry, monsieur, but I think you may have me confused with someone else." Matthew looked up at Alfred, silently pleading for help. Alfred just laughed helplessly, his face hidden in a cushion.

Francis shook his head insistently. "Never! I would know you anywhere, Lieutenant Matthew Williams."

"I'm sorry? How do you know my name?" Now Matthew looked at Arthur, who dropped his gaze into his brandy glass. He jolly well wasn't about to admit that he was the one who had told Francis Matthew's name.

The French captain sighed dramatically. "My heart breaks that you do not remember me. Did I not say that one day, if we were lucky, we should meet again?"

Matthew's eyes brightened in understanding. "Ohhh. Yes. The strange Frenchman who accosted me at the door a few months ago."

"Matthew, this is Captain Francis Bonnefoy," Alfred managed to choke out through his laughter.

Matthew nodded hesitantly and held out his hand. He still looked bewildered. "Pleasure to meet you, er, again, Captain Bonnefoy."

Francis took Matthew's hand and kissed it. "_Enchanté."_

"Francis, stop assaulting Matthew and have a brandy," said Arthur. Alfred threw the cushion at Francis' back.

Francis finally stood from the floor and fell onto the couch. "Please. Anything but one of those hideous rum balls."

When eventually the clock read one minute to twelve, Matthew raised his glass and the others quickly followed. "To friends, old and new," said Matthew, smiling at Arthur. "And to friends lost."

Alfred nodded, gazing unseeing at the ground before lifting his eyes to Arthur's. He smiled slightly. "To lives remade."

"To _l'amour_," said Francis, wagging his eyebrows at Matthew, who turned three shades of red and darted his eyes away from the overbearing Frenchmen.

"To England," said Arthur firmly, before adding softly, "And to the end of this bloody war."

The war was not over. Both Matthew and Francis would be heading back to France. Alfred would continue to train British pilots to carry on the conflict. London was not yet safe, and they knew there were many lives still to be lost. But when the clock struck twelve, they toasted goodbye to 1944 with hope and careful confidence that 1945 would be better. After all, it had to be. How could it possibly be any worse?

When Arthur awoke the next day and descended the stairs to the pub, he found Matthew and Francis lying asleep on the couch by the fireplace, their arms around each other. He smirked to himself. The new year was off to a promising start.

_February._

Saint Valentine's Day had never meant anything to Arthur. In Februaries gone by he had passed the displays of chocolate and hearts in shop windows and rolled his eyes at the idea of something so absurd. It was all so meaningless, so trivial. So overblown and trumped up. It was so… American.

So Arthur was a little shocked when, on February the 14th, he walked down into the pub to find it covered in wildflowers. They lay across the bar, engulfed the tables, coated the floor. The pub practically shone in a bright burst of colourful flora. Arthur's mouth dropped open as he walked into the room in trepidation. "What the bloody hell?"

"I told you last year, remember…" Arthur turned to find Alfred almost struggling under the load of a huge bunch of red roses, a red box tied up with a ribbon, and most absurdly of all, an enormous pink card in the shape of a heart. Arthur's eyes widened. He didn't know whether to burst out laughing or cringe in embarrassment. "Remember," continued Alfred, "In my letter. I told you that I would give you a proper Valentine this year!"

Arthur finally settled on laughing as an appropriate response, and did so hysterically, unable to stop. Alfred looked so ridiculous standing there surrounded by wildflowers, his arms full of Valentine's Day mementos, peering through his glasses over a bouquet of roses. "Alfred," said Arthur as he laughed, "You look absolutely…" he slowly trailed off when Alfred's face fell. He fought to control his laughter. "…charming," he finally finished. Alfred's eyes lit back up and he grinned. Arthur walked over, kissed Alfred lightly on the cheek, and took the roses from his hand. "Stupid Yank," he muttered quietly.

"Here, open the box! It's chocolate, I had it sent from America because the British stuff is awful. Oh, and read the card I wrote you, I filled up the entire thing!"

Arthur let Alfred chatter on, thrusting the gifts into his hands and looking as eager as a puppy. Sometimes things were so difficult. Alfred's hours training pilots were long, he often travelled, and there never seemed to be enough time to spend with each other. And always that thought sat there... the knowledge that this was temporary, it would end, the war would be over soon and Alfred would have to leave for America. And Arthur would be left alone. The thought was never far away, even in the happiest moments. But it was moments like this, when Alfred was foolish and wonderful and Arthur could so easily see how he had fallen in love with him, that Arthur almost forgot that. That he realised he had never been so happy in his entire life. And that maybe Saint Valentine's Day wasn't so bad after all.

_March._

Arthur was woken by a blinding flash and a deafening crash. His heart jumped a little, then he took a deep breath, sighed, and rolled over. A bombing raid was nothing new. Sure, it had been a few months since the last one, but Arthur was quite used to being awoken by a sudden German air strike. He was almost asleep when the sound of another loud crash filled the room and, quite unexpectedly, his hand was grasped and he was wrenched upright. Almost senseless in the dark, all he was aware of was Alfred's hand in his, dragging him insistently from the bed and out of the bedroom. His sleep-addled brain fought to keep up with what was happening. When his sight came back he realised he was in the living room, pressed against the wall, Alfred's body covering his as the building shook with the force of an earthquake. "What the bloody blazing _hell_ are you doing?" he yelled, trying to be heard over the thunderous blasts and the wailing of the air raid sirens.

"It's a rocket strike. V2's," Alfred shouted back. "We have to get to the cellar."

"Excuse me? This is nothing, I've slept through far worse than this. I'm going back to bed." Arthur tried to push his way past, but Alfred just pressed him back against the wall, trying to cover his head with his hand. Arthur batted it away in irritation. "Let me past, Alfred."

"No! The Germans are attacking! We must take cover!"

Arthur groaned and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Stupid American. "Can I at least make a cup of tea first?" Alfred didn't answer, but when the shaking of the floor stilled for a moment he took off immediately, pulling Arthur along by the hand. Arthur had no chance of pulling away. They stumbled down two flights of stairs, finally making it to the cellar where Alfred pulled him into a corner, down to the floor, and encircled him with his arms. Arthur yawned as the noise and tremors surrounded them. "This is quite unnecessary," he said, his voice muffled by Alfred's shoulder.

"Ssh," said Alfred, his lips pressed close to Arthur's ear as he stroked Arthur's back. "Don't be scared."

Arthur clenched his fists in exasperation. "I'm not scared, I just want to go back to bed. I lived through the blitz, you know."

Alfred either could not hear or was willfully ignoring him. "Ssh," he said again. "This is a last desperate attack, the Germans know they're finished. The blitz is not going to happen again, I promise."

"Oh, you promise. Jolly good," said Arthur, willing the air strike to end so he could get up off the cold stone ground and Alfred could stop playing his little game of hero. "And just how can you promise that?"

"You're right, I can't. So I promise this… if another blitz-like attack happens, I'll go up myself and stop them." Alfred grinned.

Arthur just shook his head incredulously. "You'll stop them?"

"Single-handedly, baby." Alfred winked, and Arthur gave in and laughed. Then Alfred whispered breathily, "I'll protect you." Which made Arthur quite bloody irritated.

"What the bloody hell makes you think I need pro…" Arthur was cut off as a particularly loud and shattering blast tore through the building. He screamed, clutching onto Alfred's shoulders as Alfred's arms pressed him into the wall and covered his head. The room shook around them and bottles fell from the racks to smash and shatter on the stone floor. The dark room turned light with a glow brighter than daylight. Finally the panic started to rise. Arthur told himself to breathe. Keep breathing. As long as you're breathing, you know you're alive. The terror of those days of the blitz took hold once again. That sickening fear; that dreamlike horror. That terrible solitude.

But then he breathed in Alfred's scent, leant into his embrace, felt the thrill of those strong arms around him and those warm hands trying to protect him. This wasn't like the blitz after all. He wasn't alone this time.

Finally the room grew dark again. It stopped shaking. They waited, balanced on a knife edge, expecting at any moment another crashing strike. It didn't come. Eventually Arthur sighed in relief, then could have growled when he noticed Alfred was giggling. He immediately regretted the scream. He would never live this one down.

_April._

Arthur stood at the base of the stairs, tapping his foot and checking his watch repeatedly. "Will you hurry up?" he called for the fifth time.

"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying, hold your horses." Alfred's voice drifted down the stairs.

"Hold my what?" Arthur called back. Alfred's American sayings often threw him off guard.

"Horses."

"My… why would I… what the bleeding hell are you on about?" And they never made any sense.

"Calm down, darling." Alfred sounded like he was laughing.

"Me? You are the one talking some nonsense about horses. And don't call me darling."

"Sweetheart? Baby? Doll? What can I call you?"

Arthur shuddered in disgust. "You can call me Arthur. Now get down here and let's get going, Mr Churchill is not going to wait all afternoon for you, Alfred Jones."

When Alfred had been told he was receiving a medal, they hadn't mentioned he would also be receiving recognition from the British Government for services to the Commonwealth. So it came as a complete surprise when Alfred was invited to a special ceremony to accept the decoration. Alfred had once been so eager for praise, for recognition, to be called a hero. But that was a lifetime ago, and now he had to be persuaded into accepting the invitation for the ceremony. Though at this rate it looked like he was going to miss out on the honour regardless. Arthur was learning one thing about Alfred: it took him an inordinate amount of time to get ready for anything.

Arthur looked at the ceiling in exasperation as he turned to the stairs. "Some time this month would be…" he trailed off when he looked over to see Alfred walking down the stairs, his Air Force dress uniform pressed pristinely, wearing his military blazer instead of his bomber jacket, a grin on his face, and of course, his cap at an angle on his head. All in all, Alfred was almost unbearably handsome.

"How do I look?" Alfred asked cockily.

_Perfect_. "Tolerable, I suppose," said Arthur gruffly. "Now come on, we're going to be dreadfully late."

The ceremony was one of many held that year, the purpose of which was to honour the contribution of various servicemen to Britain. Upon arrival, Alfred was immediately ferried away by high ranking military officials, whose eyes glanced unseeing over Arthur. He shrugged, quite used to the treatment, and not expecting anything else. Military personnel occupied the first few rows of the auditorium, family members in the rows behind, while members of the press milled around further back. Arthur stood in the back row amongst various civilians who stretched to see the stage. His eyes drifted over to where the wives and girlfriends of the English servicemen sat in a special designated area to the side of the stage. He wondered if they had a better view.

Arthur watched as the British servicemen's names were read out, their citations given, their medals awarded. He watched as they walked off the stage to be embraced by their waiting wives. He watched as the press took their photographs, their partners smiling proudly and prettily at their sides. And he wondered briefly what it felt like to stand proudly like that beside the one you loved, the world acknowledging you, with nothing and no reason to hide.

Arthur was shaken from his reverie as the announcer began to speak of an American pilot who was injured, captured, and now using his considerable expertise to train young British pilots. Arthur's heart leapt. And when he saw Alfred stride onto the stage to receive his medal, his cap crooked and his customary swagger in place, Arthur realised he wanted everyone in that audience to know that the handsome American on the stage was his and his alone. But he just applauded politely along with everyone else. Then Alfred turned to the audience, nodded, and tipped his hat. It would be nice for it to be recognised that he was with Alfred. But it was enough for Arthur to know that to Alfred, he was the only person in that audience.

Later at the Emerald Lion, amidst the loud talking and laughing and cheering of congratulating American servicemen, Alfred leant over the bar, brushed his hand across Arthur's, and asked, "So, how did I go up there? I was looking for you in the audience, you know."

Arthur sighed and decided to let Alfred have his moment. "You looked so brave and handsome, I almost died of pride," he said in a monotone. He felt ridiculous saying it, but the blinding grin Alfred flashed him was worth it. Arthur would never admit to himself that he meant it.

_May._

And then one fine afternoon it happened. The moment Arthur had hoped for but barely dared to dream of for the last six years. Arthur sat down to the table the same as he did every day. Alfred sat listening to the crackling wireless radio the same as he did every day. But today was different. They waited for the expected radio broadcast to begin, then sat on edge when it did. The bells struck three outside.

"_The prime minister, the right honourable Winston Churchill..." _came the voice of the announcer over the wireless.

"Shush, shush," said Arthur, waving his hand at Alfred.

"I didn't say anything!"

"Stop, be quiet."

"But I'm not..."

"Shut up Alfred!"

The speech that filtered through the speakers into the quiet, still living room held Arthur riveted to the radio. This was the moment they had waited for for days… the day they had waited for for years. Arthur held his breath, staring at his hands as they lay on the table, letting the words change the world around him. "..._Hostilities will end at one minute past midnight tonight..."_ He would never remember all the words that were said before, or all the ones that came after. But those nine words would be forever etched into Arthur's memory.

Alfred's eyes bored into his as the speech continued. "..._we will allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing..." _Arthur tried to focus but it seemed a massive roaring flooded his ears. As though he could not have heard correctly. As though this couldn't be real. "..._this is your victory…"_ The roar of the people from the streets outside blasted in through the windows. "_Advance Britannia. God bless you all." _Then it was over.

Arthur just looked at Alfred, completely shocked. Alfred's face mirrored everything Arthur was thinking and feeling. They sat in silence for a few moments, the noise from outside invading the room, until eventually Alfred's eyes lit up and he let out a deafening whoop. Arthur just shook his head, slightly stunned. It was not that he had not expected it. But to hear it was something completely different. "Did you hear…"

"Yes!" cried Alfred.

Arthur shook his head again. "I can't believe it!"

"Arthur… it's over!"

As the words finally sank in, Arthur's chest felt it would almost burst, and he broke into joyful laughter. He stood, threw himself into Alfred's arms, and Alfred spun him around until he started to feel dizzy. It was overwhelming… it was unbelievable… it was like the biggest sigh of relief he could ever imagine. The war was over.

"Come on!" Alfred cried. He set Arthur on his feet, grasped his hand, then pulled him down the stairs and out the door. Arthur tried not to fall over, but he still couldn't stop laughing.

Arthur had never imagined his city could look like this. People filled the streets, swarming onto them in a joyful tide; hugging strangers, dancing, marching arm in arm. Ecstatic chaos surrounded them, and it all felt utterly surreal as the city came alive again after years of darkness. Arthur was struck by a wave of pride. They'd made it through. He pressed close to Alfred, hoping not to lose him in the surging crowd. Pretty young girls danced past in bright colours and brighter smiles, eyeing the handsome young pilot in the American military uniform who laughed and tipped his hat as people stopped him in the street, shook his hand, thanked him.

A sea of Union Jacks filled Arthur's sight, an ocean of red, white and blue. Alfred merrily grasped a British flag from the crowd, pressing it into Arthur's hand before taking an American flag from a car and throwing it over his own shoulders. He looked like he was having the time of his life. Arthur fought to keep up, nearly slipping on the pamphlets and papers that littered the streets and dodging a rain of streamers that revellers hung over balconies to throw down at the crowd. London had become a party, a fair, a country fête. The joy was palpable, the air heavy with emotion. Arthur looked around to see a soldier kissing a laughing girl on the cheek, an old man just shaking his head and smiling, a middle aged woman with tears flowing down her cheeks.

"I told you once your city was fantastic. I mean, this is incredible!" said Alfred cheerfully.

Arthur laughed loudly and waved his flag. "Advance Britannia!" Then the noise around them was almost drowned out by the roar of a group of planes that flew overhead. "Are they some of yours?" asked Arthur, watching the aircraft fly in formation.

"No, those are Spitfires. They're British. Tough, feisty and elegant. And very beautiful." Arthur lowered his eyes to find Alfred grinning back at him. He rolled his eyes and looked away, though as always was unable to stop his own grin stretching across his face.

They headed further down the street, taking in the atmosphere, staring wide-eyed around them. Everywhere they looked, among the throng of civilians, servicemen in uniform strolled the street, laughing and joking and accepting kisses and handshakes from the crowd. Arthur nearly ran into a group of them and tried to back up, then realised that Alfred seemed to recognise them. They all embraced Alfred, clapping him on the shoulder, talking and grinning and laughing loudly. "It's home for us now, Jones! Or down to the Pacific, depending. But we're finally finished in Europe!"

Alfred laughed, but Arthur's heart suddenly sunk. The war was finished in Europe. Amongst everything he hadn't even thought about what it meant. What use was there for Alfred to stay here now?

"Come have a drink with us, Jones!"

That reminded Arthur… he really shouldn't be out here. He should get back and open the pub for the people who wanted to celebrate. Back to work, back to trying to forget.

"Meet me in an hour at The Emerald Lion," smiled Alfred. The Americans all agreed and headed off merrily. Alfred turned back to Arthur and grinned happily. "You'll make a killing this afternoon, Arthur!"

"I guess this means you're going home," said Arthur bluntly, looking away from that blinding grin. Right now it hurt too much.

"Well, yes."

"Of course. I understand." Arthur felt like his chest was being crushed. This was the moment he'd been dreading, the one he knew was coming, the one he had so far managed to avoid but could ignore no longer. Alfred was finally leaving him, for good this time.

"And you're coming with me."

Arthur's breath stopped in his throat. He must have heard that wrong. "What?"

Alfred laughed. "I told you before, remember? I want to show you the streets of New York, and take you home to my farm, and go up and show you the whole country from the air. I want to show you everything. You will come with me, won't you?" Alfred's face was eager and pleading.

The pain in Arthur's chest was replaced by an unfamiliar soaring feeling of hope. But just as quickly it fell again. As he looked around at everyone celebrating on the streets that he loved, he realised… "Alfred, I can't live in America. I could never leave London."

Alfred shrugged. "Then we'll come back here. The military will always need flight instructors. And I practically saved England, they can't kick me out. I'm a goddamn war hero." Alfred grinned cockily. Arthur suppressed the urge to either scoff or kick Alfred, even as his wildly oscillating emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

"But… what about your home?"

"Of course I can't abandon America entirely. But we'll work it out." Alfred looked down at Arthur, pressed close against him in the swelling crowd. His grin faded slightly and his eyes grew intense. A tingling shudder ran through Arthur's spine. "Besides, Arthur, home is wherever you are. So, will you come with me? And take me with you? 'Cause I never want to leave home again."

Arthur's heart thumped wildly and he was suddenly overcome with delirious happiness. "Alfred, what… what are you asking?"

"Well I'd give you a ring, but I don't think you'd wear it. And I'd get down on one knee, but I'm pretty sure I'd be trampled in this crowd. But Arthur…" Alfred winked. "That's pretty much what I'm asking."

Arthur's pulse quickened and his neck flushed with heat. He wondered if that grin, that wink, would ever stop affecting him. He knew, somehow, that it never would. And in the middle of the street, with the streamers flying and the crowd cheering and the sun shining brightly in the blue sky, Alfred took Arthur's hand and kissed it, looking down with eyes full of love and promise. And Arthur didn't care that they were outside, that people could see them, that a loud and pushing crowd surrounded them. Arthur had always thought, somewhere deep inside, that Alfred would leave one day - like everyone always had before. But now he suddenly realised what had been right before him the entire time. That wherever Alfred went, he would always come back. They would always meet again. The noise and the colour faded into the distance until it was just Alfred and him, standing together, smiling and laughing and unable to believe that this war had led them to this conclusion. It was incredible. It was beautiful. It was magic.

And it was only the beginning.


	13. Epilogue

_**50 Years Later…  
May, 1995**_

Arthur's back creaked in protest as he dragged himself up the stairs of the pub. It seemed like every day it got harder. One of these days, he told himself. One of these days he was going to install an elevator. He grumbled to himself as he finally reached the top and walked slowly into the living room. He fell heavily into his favourite armchair and looked across at Alfred, who sat watching the small television set absently. "One of these days I am going to install an elevator."

Alfred's lips twitched in a tiny smile. "You say that every day, Arthur."

"I mean it, too. Mail's here."

Alfred looked over, his eyes lighting up. "Ooh, what'd we get?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. He didn't know how Alfred managed to get so excited every day about something as simple as the mail arriving. He leafed through the pages and envelopes. "Just the newspaper and some catalogues. Oh, and a postcard from Matthew and Francis."

"Where are they now?"

"Cruising around the Spanish coast, can you believe it?" Arthur examined the postcard with a picture of a pristine beach on the front and Matthew's handwriting on the back. "When will they learn they're too old like the rest of us?"

"Hey, speak for yourself, old man."

Arthur ignored him with the practiced ease that only came after fifty years of living with a bloody irritating American. He leant back against the soft cushions and opened the newspaper. It was a special issue to celebrate the 50th VE Day, the 50th anniversary of the end of the war in Europe. Alfred had been invited to numerous ceremonies of course, but he never was one to make a big deal of these sorts of things. He had barely mentioned anything about the day and seemed quite content to simply watch the proceedings on television. Arthur focused on the newspaper. After flicking past a few articles on the end of the war and the current celebrations, he came to a page that made him pause in shock. "Well, blow me down."

"Hm?" asked Alfred vaguely, his eyes glued to the television set.

"You're in the paper!"

Alfred looked over, surprised. "What? Is it about the UFO sighting I reported last month?"

"No…"

"Is it about that cat I rescued from the tree out front last week?"

"No, Alfred…"

"It's not about that can of tomatoes I forgot to pay for at the supermarket is it, because I took them back and the girl was real nice and she swore she wouldn't get the police involved…"

"Alfred, shut up." Arthur held up the lift-out from the paper. Alfred leant forward and squinted.

"What's it say? Hold on, I need my stronger glasses…" Alfred rummaged around on the coffee table.

Arthur smiled slightly and shook his head. "It says, _'Fighter Aces of World War Two,'"_

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "You don't say?"

"And look, there you are." Arthur gazed at the black and white photo of nineteen year old Alfred in the paper, grinning widely at the camera with his military cap at a skewed angle. He looked exactly the way Arthur remembered. Arthur sighed quietly. "You were so handsome."

"What's with this 'were' business?"

"Shush." Arthur read the article out loud. _"Lieutenant Alfred F. Jones of the American Army Air Force only flew in combat for a few short months in 1944, but quickly distinguished himself as one of the best fighter pilots of the war. Known by the enemy as 'The Magician' for his unparalleled skills in evasion, his record of seven kills in a single flight has never been equalled by an American pilot, before or since. Lieutenant Jones' last flight, during which he was isolated by a squadron of German Messerschmitts in allied airspace, is still considered one of the most courageous moments in aviation history. Greatly outnumbered, Jones took down seven enemy planes while defending strategic airspace and drawing fire away from his squad into enemy territory. Here he was shot down, captured, and…"_ Arthur faltered over the next few words. It was amazing how, even fifty years later, any mention of that incident still affected him so strongly. He looked up at Alfred, who smiled gently back at him.

"Skip that bit."

Arthur took a deep breath, skipped ahead, and continued reading. _"For this act of bravery Jones was awarded the prestigious Medal of Honor. He went on to become a greatly respected military flight instructor. He travelled extensively between England and the United States and has been formally recognised by the British government on several occasions for services to the Commonwealth. Alfred Jones currently resides in London with his…"_ Arthur trailed off once again.

"With his what?" Alfred prompted.

Arthur's mind spun in disbelief. His mouth went dry and he could barely manage to choke out the words. _"With his long time partner Arthur Kirkland."_ Arthur shook his head in astonishment. "They put that in the paper… can you believe they actually wrote that in the national bloody newspaper!"

Alfred giggled cheerfully. "Ah, the times they are a-changing. Wait and see, we'll be walking down the aisle one of these days!"

Arthur just stared unbelieving at the words in print before him. After all these years of being the partner of a war hero, it was the first time he had been publicly acknowledged as such. He couldn't help the wave of pride he felt, knowing that the entire country would read that paper and those words. He also couldn't help the wide smile that spread across his face. Then he looked up, saw Alfred grinning at him, and felt slightly embarrassed. He folded the paper and tossed it down beside him. "Huh, well, there you are then. What is this rubbish you're watching anyway?"

Alfred turned the volume up. "Some concert celebration for the 50th anniversary."

Arthur shook his head in disgust. "I never did like these depressing wartime songs." Alfred just laughed. When the next song started, Arthur recognised the tune immediately. His stomach turned cold. "Oh no."

Alfred's face lit up and he looked over at Arthur excitedly. "Arthur! It's our song!"

Arthur just repeated, "Oh no."

But it was too late. Alfred had already pulled himself out of his chair and was attempting to drag Arthur to his feet. Arthur attempted a protest, but he already knew it was in vain. He finally let himself be dragged out of the chair and into Alfred's arms. Alfred held him in the familiar dance position and began waltzing across the floor. And, of course, he started singing. "_We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when…"_

The sun flooded through the curtains as memories of this song flooded Arthur's mind. Fifty years. Fifty years that had passed in a heartbeat. Fifty years of dancing and laughing and terrible singing and everything else that came with it. In decades past they had danced to this tune playing from a wireless radio, a gramophone, a record player, a black and white television, a tiny cassette player, a CD player Alfred had excitedly brought home one morning in 1983, and on one memorable occasion from a military band at a highly select function as several amused and confused international delegates looked on. And on this particular afternoon they danced to the tune playing from their small colour television set. Of course they danced a little slower, and Alfred didn't swing Arthur around and dip him like he used to. But some things, just like the song itself, never changed.

_"Keep smiling through, just like you, always do…" _Alfred's hair was thin and grey. His handsome face was lined with the years. But that grin still had the exact same effect as ever. _"til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!"_

"Well, one thing certainly hasn't changed," said Arthur, smiling up into Alfred's blazing blue eyes.

"What's that?" asked Alfred, grinning down as he held Arthur tightly by the waist and ran his thumb over Arthur's palm.

"After all these years, my dear, you are still the most bloody awful singer I have ever heard."

Alfred just laughed as they danced slowly to the swelling music while the afternoon sunshine flooded the room. "I love you too," he replied, before bursting back into song.

"_But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day!"_

* * *

_**THE END.**_


End file.
